


The Body On The Mountainside

by renval_writes_sometimes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Character Death, Concentration Camps, F/M, How Do I Tag, I just couldn't commit to making anyone a really bad person, I'm Bad At Summaries, Lots of Angst, Ludwig is not a white supremacist, M/M, Minor Character Death, My First Fanfic, Nazi Germany, Not A Happy Ending, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Prisoner of War, Rebellion, Resistance, So many OCs, World War II, be warned, im a sucker for fluff tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2020-09-26 13:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 94,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renval_writes_sometimes/pseuds/renval_writes_sometimes
Summary: Amelia Jones is nothing short of spontaneous—some might even call her reckless or impulse to a dangerous degree. And before parachuting with no experience as a spy into dangerous territory in Vichy France just so she could be with her fiancé after two years, she would have to argue with that fact. Well, now she's a Prisoner of War to a strange group of Nazis who, for some reason, seem bent on protecting her—and she can't help but wonder of maybe this was all just a terrible mistake from the get-go.





	1. bienvenue en France

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing & posting this mostly on my phone in my very limited free time. I'm going to try very hard to finish this fic in the next year before I worry about possible sequel ideas. (I know, I'm overzealous). Anyway, it's probably not very good, just gonna warn you, but I promise that you might enjoy it if you give it a chance. Mostly unedited and unbeta'd as of right now, so beware of grammar mistakes and spelling errors galore. Also, TW, Nazis are in this. Nazis are also bad. But not all Germans were bad. I'm allowed to say this because I'm Jewish. But if it makes you uncomfortable, feel free to not read. Just no, Nazis are in no way glorified in this fic, and I frankly find their glorification disgusting. Also, I've genderbent some characters. Why? Because I don't feel like adding all that onto what's supposed to be a pretty simple storyline.
> 
> Anyway, dedicated to Lluvia di Noche and everyone else who harrassed me about posting this. You guys suck but I like you anyway.

November 1943

**It was official.** Nothing—absolutely _nothing_—could be more uncomfortable than the cargo bay of a Martin III Marauder, with both its insides and its underbelly iced over in a windchill of twenty-below, dropping through an over-clouded night sky from a cruising altitude of fifteen thousand feet to a mere six hundred. Nothing, that is, except falling out of the aforementioned cargo bay into cold, empty space with forty kilos of supplies falling around you (and how you _hoped_ you didn’t get hit) and with a parachute of dubious dependability strapped to your back as the only barrier between you and meeting your Maker much sooner than one might expect—or want. Not only is the deafening roar of two-cylinder engines replaced with the high-pitched scream of ice-cold air slashing at your now-numbed ears and clawing like a rabid animal at your throat, but you can almost catch a terrifying image of the American-made British bomber in the night sky before the sweat inside your flight goggles freezes over and you’re free falling into enemy territory blind.

Amelia Jones had jumped into such conditions quite willingly, corkscrewing violently away from the underbelly of the bomber and tumbling toward earth, battered by a never-ceasing wall of wind that may as well have been made from stone that threatened to seize her limbs from their sockets. Heart racing and in her throat, she tried desperately to remember her brief training as she twisted and turned toward the fast-approaching clearing below. Her thoughts were swirling—a chaotic mess of colour and words that made no semblance of sense, even to herself—her senses _completely_ frozen as she fell, trying to hold in a scream.

She felt a vicious tug at her backside—she bit her tongue and tasted metal to hold back her yelp—and glanced upwards, squinting hard through the ice on her goggles, hardly able to make out the white cloud jettison away from her body, disappearing for a fraction of a second before opening to its full circumference with a sound that reminded her of enemy bombs exploding over the rooftops of London. The sheer force of it had snapped her head back like it was nothing and pain exploded up the base of her skull.

She had not been prepared for this. She’d no time to think—about her reasons for coming to France, about the difficult path that had brought her to this point, what her future might have in store for her—some six hundred feet over the frozen Rhône-Alpes. And she refused to think about how occupied France was probably the most dangerous place for an American woman to be in 1943.

She clawed at her useless goggles and ripped them from her face, peering first upwards in order to assure her screaming nerves that the parachute had, indeed, opened, and then downward into the darkness below. Her eyes stung and watered—is it possible to go blind from this? She couldn’t remember—and she wiped impatiently at her burning, streaming tears until she could finally (at long last) make out the silhouettes of treetops against an ethereal grey background below her. A second later, she located the yellowish-orange flicker of four tiny lights shining upwards from the small clearing. She prayed it was her welcoming committee that watched her descent—and not a German patrol.

A gust of a sudden breeze jerked her parachute painfully north of the clearing, and she fought with her straps, her muscles straining to pull it back southwards, gritting her teeth so hard she thought they might crack. The goggles slipped from her hands and flew away from her reach, crashing downward on their own, unknown trajectory to some never-to-be-found destination. But Amelia didn’t have time to sort through the implication of a pair of British flight goggles being discovered by the wrong person. The hazy grey-white of the clearing was rushing towards her at a rate which made her light-headed and pushed all other thoughts from her mind. Panic tightened her muscles and and liquified her joins. Don’t tense up. (Her jaw was still tight.) Stay flexible.

She gripped the straps on either side of her body and took in a deep breathe as the clearing eclipsed her vision and she found herself able to distinguish footprints in the snow. She focused on those. The impact, when she landed, knocked the breath from her lungs and sent shockwaves of a seismic magnitude from her ankles to her skull. She crumpled into a ball and lay still her breathing laboured, as she immense expanse of white fabric ballooned over her body before sagging gently against the snow.

The good news: she wasn’t dead.

The bad news: _yet._

For a moment, there was complete silence, blessed silence. From somewhere in the clearing, she could hear an owl hooting to the night. The icy, unforgiving wind that had pummeled her body in the air so mercilessly only a moment before now only gently stirred the darkened tops of tall evergreen trees. Ice particles moved about her in a gentle whirlwind, falling on her parachute like the pitter-patter of a million marching insects. Her body registered the cold first as the snow dampened her side, the bruises on her shoulders burning into her bones and then—muffled footsteps running around her.

She’d made it. Not dead and mostly unscathed, she’d made it. She was trembling—not from panic in those moments before she jumped, but from the sweet relief of being on solid ground—a feeling she would never again take for granted. And, soon enough, Arthur would find her, convince her that she was still in one piece, and they would be together for the first time in two years. She’d been anticipating this moment. That was, of course, if the approaching footsteps were not attached to black boots, machine guns and swastikas. She shivered at the thought and forced her shaking, rubbery body to roll onto her knees, hanging her head momentarily while she focused on quieting her breathing. She knew she should be dislodging herself from the parachute, but the relief of her safe landing muddled with the fear of Germans bearing down on her like a pack of wolves numbed her muscles and she felt as if she might collapse.

She struggled to disentangle herself from the parachute and to stand tall anyway. Amelia Jones would not die on her knees. She was better than that, deserved more than that.

“_Amy_?” Arthur’s whisper cut across the silence, the cockney tinge to an otherwise very refined London-borne accent unmistakable. Amelia struggled to her feet, turning to the group of four _maquisards_ to find the one she had missed so terribly approaching in the darkness. Her smile was so wide that it hurt and she bounced slightly on the balls of her feet.

And then he was there and she barely had any time to assess any changes to Arthur’s face before he reached for her and pulled her into his chest in one swift motion. “_Sois la bienvenue, chérie._”

Amelia wrapped her arms around his neck, holding onto him like a leech, breathing in his familiar scent—the cologne, tea, sweat. All of it. Her eyes fluttered shut and she felt weightless, her heart was warm, like she was sitting next to a warm fire. “I’ve missed you _so_ _much_. I—”

“We’ve got to hurry.” Arthur Kirkland hugged her briefly before firmly dislodging her arms from around his neck—and even though his brow was creased with worry, he still managed to give her a half-smile. He snapped the release on her parachute harness and helped her pull off the straps—normally she would protest against his help, but, at the moment, she was too tired to really care. The parachute sagged against the ground one last time before he took the fabric with both hands, tugging it toward him, bunching it swiftly and efficiently against his chest. “We might’ve been followed.”

That snapped Amelia out of her lovestruck-haze, stepping back and nodding mutely._ Of course_. This was more than just a reunion, a romantic liaison. This was a _war_. A _mission_. Still, she couldn't help the twinge of disappointment at his hurried greeting. She had known, of course, that their affections for each other must be kept to a strict minimum—and she had already accepted this already, in order to be of proper assistance to Arthur. _But, such is war._

She went to retrieve the tiny spade that was still—_thankfully_—strapped to her leg. One of Arthur’s comrade’s took it from her (she thanked him weakly, too tired to do much else) and went to the task of digging a shallow grave for her flight suit and parachute. Amelia struggled out of the said flight suit before dropping it next to the hole. Another man reached for her pack, which she relented to him easily, relieved by the newfound weightlessness on her shoulders—grunting softly as the weight momentarily unbalanced him, before hefting it more securely onto his shoulders and turning from her.

Arthur swiftly wrapped the parachute inside it's straps and tossed it into the hole as well. Another man covered it with soil, then snow, before sweeping it with a branch.

Arthur took Amelia's arm and smiled briefly. “We really must get going, love.” His breath came in tiny clouds as he spoke.

He pulled up his eyebrows. “Are you alright?”

Amelia grimaced at her bruises and nodded, legs still trembling. “Nothing’s broken. I’ll survive.”

“Lovely. Follow me.” Arthur turned and led her away from the dropsite. She slipped her gloved hand into his and felt his grip tighten comfortably around her palm as their fingers intertwined. The familiar pressure calmed her nerves and she couldn't help but smile.

**“What do you have there, love?”** Arthur gripped the steering wheel as he leaned his thin torso forward, squinting into the darkness ahead of the trunk.

Amelia stole her another glance at her lover, hardly able to believe he was really sitting next to her, after so long without him. She could almost make out the shock of unruly hair underneath his cap (he always did complain about it never laying down flat, although she found it quite handsome) through the darkness and the determined set of his thin jaw as he navigated the uneven trail. The truck passed under stately trees, which rose on both sides of the trails, in a way that Amelia almost found regal, shoulder to shoulder, tapering forms pointing heavenward, in a sky brilliant with stars. She braced her back against the back of her seat, as Arthur swerved to miss a rather large depression in the road. The truck righted itself and continued downward, clinging tenaciously to the mountain’s almost invisible road. Below them lay the darkened windows of a mountain village, heavily shades and waiting for the end of curfew and the sun, which would be rising in a few hours.

“Medical supplies,” she finally said. “Morphine, mostly. Transmission radio tubes, money, food vouchers, a coupla pistols and bullets, a few maps, documents.”

“Good girl.”

“Are those your friends from Belley?” Amelia gestured her chin to the canvas flaps that separated them from the back of the truck.

Arthur shook his head. “Local _marquis_.”

“Where’s Francis?”

“You’ll meet him soon enough.” He glanced over at her. “His code name is ‘Bruno,’ be sure to remember that. At least in public.”

“I’ll remember.” She nodded for emphasis.

“You missed the drop zone. Did you have any problems?”

“A strong breeze, that's all. I lost the goggles, too.”

Arthur paused. “You lost _what_?”

Amelia hesitated, afraid to look at the expression that would be attached to such a tone of voice. “My flight goggles.” Her voice was _barely_ above a whisper.

“What do you _mean_,” (he inhaled sharply at this moment), “you _lost_ your _goggles_?”

“When the wind—they slipped from my hands, you know…” She looked down at her shoes, face warm with frustration and embarrassment.

Amelia recognised the tightness creeping into his voice. “What were they doing in your hands?”

“I was _blind_, honey—the ice…”

Arthur shook his head sharply, jaw clenched. “You should have left them on.” Another sharp inhale. “Do you _realize_ what this means?”

Amelia’s cheeks grew hotter with each word Arthur spoke. “Yes, I think I do.”

“If they find your goggles, the dropzone will be compromised.” Another reproachful glance, his expression tight from trying to keep back whatever emotions he may be feeling. “People could _die_, missions could—no, _will_ go wrong. We’ll have to find a new site.”

“Look, I’m _sorry_. I—”

Arthur sighed, though he didn't seem very relaxed. “Don’t worry about it.” His eyes didn’t leave the road. “It could have happened to anyone. Things like this have happened before—we survived. It's not your fault, my lover.”

But Amelia didn't feel very reassured. It was her fault. And from the reaction Arthur had, he thought so too. She studied him in the darkness, forcing herself to breath normally around the lump in her throat. She couldn't bear the thought of Arthur upset with her—or, worse yet, someone being hurt because of her. “You mentioned you thought you were being followed.”

Arthur squinted into the darkness. “One of the boys thought he saw somebody before we gathered tonight. Debating calling off the drop.”

“If you had been followed, wouldn't we be dead by now?”

“Per_haps_.” Arthur fell silent as they negotiated a difficult curve.

“Maybe they’d been tipped off, but didn't know exactly where we'd be.” The explanation sounded as reasonable as any. Amelia felt almost proud coming up with it.

“Either way, their Alpine troops—the _Gebirgsjager_, for future reference—will comb through the mountain tomorrow, and they’ll find your goggles…” Arthur sounded almost bitter.

Amelia pressed her lips into a thin line, hands clenched in her lap. “You keep coming back to that.” It felt strange for her—a woman normally so outspoken—to feel so small.

“I’m sorry, love.” Arthur sighed, almost helplessly. As if he couldn't control his own tone. “I don’t mean to hurt you. But you’ll find out here that there’s a thin line between life and death.” Arthur relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and reached out a hand to rest on Amelia’s knee. “A cough, a look, hesitation, a tiny piece of paper in the wrong hands— all these things could lead to the death of men. Good men, who are fighting against German tyranny.”

Amelia nodded, put her hand on his, and watched him closely, clinging to his every word. “These mountains are our lifeline, love. Most of these people shrug their shoulders and submit to the occupation. Some—they even condone it.” His lips twisted in what Amelia could only imagine was disgust. “But a growing number refuses to submit to surrender to Nazi tyranny. We disrupt railways, steal supplies, impersonate officers—we fight them anyway we can. We need the safety of these villages to survive.” Arthur glanced at Amelia. “Did you know the _boches_ will crush _whole villages suspected of harbouring Résistance_?”

Amelia's mouth popped open. “Seems a bit excessive for such . . . small acts of sabotage.”

“_Small_?” Arthur snorted. “Our efforts may _seem_ insignificant to some, but these revolts strike at the Nazis where it hurts most—_their pride_. The British and Americans have finally recognised our usefulness and have begun to send us more agents, weapons, supplies. Of course, the Germans will fight this anyway they can. But even the best of soldiers are nothing against well-supplied guerrillas.”

Amelia watched her fiancé, the way his eyes lit up with passion, the way his words were thick with emotion—anger, pride, fear, triumph, confidence, desperation. All of it.

“I remember when you had told me that the Germans’d took over the southern half of France,” she murmured. He’d been like madman, pacing his office and flinging his students’ papers across the floor, slipping into the cockney accent of Kent he tried so hard to suppress. “Told me that the Nazis posed an even greater threat to the Résistance than the Vichy.”

“They want to see us broken down, subservient and docile. They want us destroyed. The Vichy are at least _actual Frenchmen_, and can be reasonable. Or bribed.”

“And the German garrison in Belley?”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. “They’re determined to see us crushed, to flush out Bruno and his organisation.” He moved his hand back to the wheel. “Bruno says there’s a new officer in charge there—one sent _specifically_ to capture him.”

Amelia blinked. “He’s that much of a threat to them?”

“He’d worked closely with Jean Moulin, back up in Lyon. The Gestapo would kill to have Bruno in their clutches. It would cripple the Marquis in the Rhône-Alpes, maybe even all of southern France…”

“Would he talk?” After all, like on all the signs plastered on every storefront window back home: _loose lips sink ships_.

Arthur shook his head. “_Never_! Jean Moulin never talked—and I know _for a fact_ Bruno would be just as strong.”

The flap behind them lifted and one of Arthur’s comrades poked his head in. “We’re finished back here. How you wanna work the distribution?”

“We’ll talk about it later. First I want to get Lénore back to the safe house.”

Amelia had thought she’d been prepared. She had been told by her superiors that she was prepared—but hearing Arthur call her by her code name… She had entered a world only described in Arthur’s letters and British training pamphlets—a world filled with fear that she couldn’t have possibly imagined.

She wondered if her feelings were like that of those countless young men who were signing up for the war, signing up to be heroes—those feelings of adventure, excitement, anticipation. How long did it take those boys to be hit with reality, the terror that burned your insides and stuck viscously to the base of your throat? No heartburn pills could cure this burn, and she clenched her hands together. It didn't help that Arthur seemed so different, _so cold_. She knew what he was feeling—the burden of her safety and his men’s safety, the vigor of patriotism and the burning anger at the Japanese when they attacked Pearl Harbour. But he had _changed_. He was no longer the Arthur she’d known.

“Madame Guilbert’s?” the man yawned, glancing at Amelia.

“Until curfew is lifted.”

“And the debriefing?”.

“As soon as possible. We have a lot to get through.”


	2. in Grendon

**Madame Donatienne Guilbert’s home lay comfortably situated between two larger homes on the unassuming Rue de St. André near the outskirts of Belley.** Amelia had immediately taken a liking to the woman, with her cloud of white hair, wizened face and compassionate grey eyes. It was a huge rusk the madame was taking in allowing her to stay, but when she tried to thank the woman for her kindness, she was cut off mid sentence.

“No, no, no,” the woman said. “You are always welcome guests in my home—they’re too old to suspect me of _anything_.” She smiled radiantly, despite her several decaying and crooked teeth. She offered to fix a meal, apologising in advance for the quality of her coffee and the lack of meat, but Amelia declined gently, explaining that she was tired and needed sleep rather than more energy before her debriefing.

Arthur grabbed her hand outside her bedroom door, warning it between his own and looking into her eyes. Still the same brilliant green she remembered, made brighter by the deep suffering and a fire of conviction behind them that almost surprised her with its intensity. He leaned in close—she could feel the heat radiating off his skin—and kissed her briefly, but sweetly all the same. Amelia closed her eyes, waiting for a surge of sparks that always accompanied his kisses. Was disappointment destined to be attached to every moment with her fiancé this trip?

Arthur gently cupped Amelia’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, love. I want you to know that, no matter how distracted or _harsh_ I'm being...right now. The war—”

Amelia kissed him again and then smiled. “I _understand_, Arthur. You don’t need to worry. I'm here to help you in any way I can.”

Arthur’s eyes were tired, with deep bruises underneath them. “Do you think you can sleep until I call for you?”

“I’m asleep already, rest assured.”

“Good.” Arthur tried to smile and touched her with a hint of the affection she remembered and wanted so badly. “Don’t worry about the meeting, love. It will be short and you have important things to say that these men need to hear.”

Amelia smiled. “As much as I appreciate the  
encouragement, Arthur, I’m not worried.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “_When_ are you _ever_?”

_Right now. Right here. Ever since I've first signed up for the Women's Army. _But Arthur didn't need to hear that. 

He kissed her cheek and then was gone, calling for her to sleep well and that he’ll miss her over his shoulder.

Amelia entered the bedroom and shut the door, locking it behind her. For a long moment, she rested her head against the frame, closing her eyes and listening to the stillness of the night. Though her fingers brushed against switch, she did not turn on the light. Instead, she relied on the moonlight filtering through the delicate lace curtains to illuminate her way across the small, cosy-looking room to the window, past the bed with it's soft down comforter folded temptingly back. (A two-person bed, Amelia noticed, and she vaguely hoped Arthur wouldn't be tired enough to go to bed any time soon). There, she stood quietly, studying every shadow, every movement, for well over ten minutes, summoning all her courage. Then she turned the latch, grasped the edge of the window, and slowly pulled it upward. She slipped out the window, her feet landing firmly on the ground. Hugging her thin coat tight around her shoulders, she crept around the house, staying only in the darkest shadows, until she reached the street. She paused to survey her surroundings closely—any German patrols would ruin her plans in an instant, as well as her life in that same moment.

Amelia kept to the shadows, alert and tensed to run if necessary, the pistol strapped to her side burning a hole in her ribs, to remind her that it was there if things became truly dire. One bullet. That's all she needed. Her heart raced painfully fast. Cold sweat dripped down her forehead. She had known upon agreeing to the task she’d have no idea of the peril should would face. She had only known she’d be allowed to help Arthur of she agreed to complete this one, simple task—and she had jumped at the possibility.

It had been night the offer was extended to her. She had been walking home from Grendon when she had been accosted by two men in suits and bowler hats. They had greeted her in French as she had tried to move past them on the sidewalk. They had called her by name and indicated for her to follow them, without any real explanation as to why. Amelia spent the rest of her escort down Baker Street concocting escape plans for if things went wrong. Her solemn companions had ushered her to the office of Mr Leo Marks, head of SOE communications, whom she had met briefly upon her appointment to Grendon as a coder. He shook her hand warmly, dismissed her depressing escorts, and introduced her to another man in the room—dark-haired, middle-aged, and obviously French.

“Lieutenant Valois wishes to meet with you, Ms Jones. He’s visiting from General de Gaulle’s RF section. We’ve told him a lot about you.” He gestured for her to sit, which she did. “We are discussing a new coding system for French agents and are in need of your services.”

Following that was the most incredible, terrifying explanation for their secret meeting: Monsieur Valois wanted Amelia to drop into France to test a new coding system developed by Marks and, if ordered by the SOE, train the Résistance leaders and existing WT operators on the field in the use of the new system.

“You have wanted to join your fiancé, Ms Jones. Here is your chance.”

It had taken several minutes and plenty of promises on the Frenchman’s part before she accepted the assignment, and even after her acceptance she felt trepidation—an uncommon feeling to Amelia. It was a direction of life she had not quite anticipated—nor would she have ever asked for—and she was not what you would call enthusiastic about it. Sure, she’d be allowed to see Arthur again after such a bout of absence, but she doubted on whether he’d actually be pleased with her randomly dropping in on him when he had important work to be doing.

As her whirlwind of training progressed, she lost track of the times she had given into her fears, always at the back of her mind, tormenting her. That her coding skills would never be up to Marks’ impossible standards. That she may be arrested, interrogated, tortured, or even killed by the Germans—and that Arthur and the rest of the Résistance would pay for her mistakes.

That fear was at the center of her rapidly shifting thoughts as she made her way past an abandoned barn, through a moonlit church graveyard and into a dilapidated, leaning cluster of homes that were probably abandoned at the beginning of the war. She followed a narrow, weed-choked street, counting the houses on her left, stopping once she found number fifteen. She stopped, painfully swallowing the fear that pushed its way up her throat. Amelia was no coward, but the idea that her first assignment could also be her last of the Germans were listening was...stark, for lack of a better word.

She took a deep breath, glanced back down the street and climbed the crumbling steps to the house. Once inside, she proceeded down the cramped, narrow hallway at the back, where the locked door only confirmed that she was indeed in the right location. “A WT set will be waiting for you,” Valois had said after giving her list of instructions and meticulous directions to the location.

Amelia slipped her tools from the pocket of her coat and easily manipulated the lock, shivers of panic running down her side—she didn’t like having her back turned, and her hands occupied. She supposed she probably wouldn't feel safe until she was back at Madame Guilbert’s and by Arthur’s side.

She entered the small, shaded room and sat at the table, removing the old clothing and dusty bedding that was strewn about the room and over the radio, in place of more legitimate camouflaging techniques. She unlaced her boot and from a slit in the lining, produced a small swatch of silk that might have been a ladies’ handkerchief, of not for the tiny letters printed on it. She smoothed the fabric in front of her, before also procuring a nub of a pencil and a scratch of paper.

With a small torch securely between her teeth—is this what smoking felt like?—she hunched over the paper and hastily drew lines, sketching up a crude graph, that she began to carefully fill with letters, seemingly haphazard in location and in clusters—but still supremely accurate in their effectiveness. She referenced the silk code key in front of her often, transferring the necessary information from the frontline of the transposition key printed there.

Though anxious to leave, she took her time, working meticulously with her codes. The local Funk-Horchdiest would not be looking for her until several minutes after she began her transmit—if they were even in the area at all. And then with these new “worked-out keys”—often abbreviated to WOKs—the fear of the Germans being able to decipher my upon its semi-probable interception disintegrated.

Amelia wanted the message to be absolutely perfect: no misspelled words, no misaligned columns, and definitely no mistakes in her security checks. Her message could be one hundred and fifty characters instead of the poem code’s required hundred more. Therefore, requiring of her less time on air and then, less chance of detection. She had faith in this system—_she had to_—and she felt the strong desire to prove her worth to the SOE’s signal directorate.

According to Marks, this was nothing more than a test transmission—but Amelia planned on sending more than just a test. She alerted Baker Street to the compromised dropsite, the new German in charge of Belley, and the possibility of the drop being observed.

Grendon’s reply was almost immediate, catching her off guard. There would be a supplies stop the following night, and because of the compromised site (Amelia flushed slightly at this—how could she have been so stupid?), news of the drop and coordinates would be transmitted immediately through regular channels (meaning through Francis’s normal WT operator, she supposed) in order to keep Amelia’s transmission brief—ie, secret. Amelia was scheduled one more secret transmission the following night at nine-thirty—six hours before the drop. Should the new code be deemed satisfactory, silks would be sent via the drop and be distributed to Arthur and the others. Amelia acknowledged London’s reply and then signed off, and moved to the front door to watch the street below.

All was silent. Apparently, she’d caught the Germans sleeping. Hopefully, her next transmission will go just as smoothly. She returned to the backroom, cut along the top of the WOK, completely removing the strip of silk that had the key she had just used on it, and then pulled the strings until it all disintegrated. With her foot, she swept the rubbish to the corner of the room. She lowered the radios antenna, and threw old blankets and close on top of it once more.

She scanned the room, looking for any other sign that she had been there—she blew on her foot prints and scuttle marks, displacing the dust until it looked like no one had been there for several weeks. She locked the door behind her, then moved through the house and back onto the street.


	3. Bruno

**Oh, how the tables have turned.**

Arthur really should be the teacher, not her. But she had information to deliver that put her at the very front of the room and Arthur as a part of her audience. She swallowed, trying to eliminate the dryness of her throat, as she faxed over the assemblage. In the laziness of the early morning, the front parlor seemed almost claustrophobic, crowded with eleven men and Madame Guilbert, still tightly wrapped in her road. Behind the blackout curtains Amelia caught the first glimmer of morning—it would be light within the hour. Arthur was anxious for the group to disperse without drawing too much attention to themselves. And soon the street would be full of it's usual morning commute.

Now, Amelia had never been one for stage fright, but she was not used to addressing assemblies—especially with the sort of information she held now—and she would very much prefer it if Arthur would be the one to play teacher instead, like when they first met. To her left, Arthur relaxed in his chair, and when she met his gaze, she smiled encouragingly at her, and even circumstances such as the one she found herself in, the memory came to her like a punch to the face—suddenly and dizzyingly. His classroom had been one dominated by women, given that most of them were off in Europe, serving in their country and doing their folks’ back home proud. She had been young, overzealous and much too outspoken for her own good, and he had been so sophisticated and charming. It had been her straight-forwardness, big heart and good humour, Arthur often told her. She would always reply that it was his cute accent.

“Mademoiselle?”

She blinked rapidly before clearing her throat and her mind. “To answer your question, monsieur, it’ll be sometime next year. That's all know.”

“A little vague, don't you think?”

Amelia looked at the speaker, mouth opened to give her reasoning. He was a small man, bristling with a mustache and a beard, and the top of his head was thick with tar-coloured hair. His dark eyes watched her suspiciously, glinting as he awaited her answer, as did those of every other man in the room. Amelia wetted her lips, ready to speak—

“It is enough to know that the Allies are coming.” Arthur straightened up when he said this, face stern. “What would we possibly do with more information? Leak it to our enemies—we’re not all as strong Moulin was. If we knew the exact date and we caught—”

“Do you doubt our allegiance, Dorian?” The little man’s nostrils flared. “Do you think we’ll sing within their first strike?”

Arthur shook his head, taking his place at Amelia’s side. “I think nothing of the sort, Bernard; but you all know as well as I do that if we’re captured and we resist, they have other means of—”

“Scopolamine, perhaps?”

“I think that’s likely, yes.”

“The Germans would see us suffer first. They love to see us suffer. Barbie made that very clear.”

“Klaus Barbie is Gestapo,” Arthur corrected lightly. “The Gestapo would love to see us suffer. But not all Germans are barbarians.”

A murmur filtered through the group and Amelia could feel the tension pressing down on her chest. Amelia glanced at Arthur through the corner of her, brow quirked. Why would he risk such an apparently inflammatory comment in such a gathering?

Arthur continued, “We’ve a had experiences with Germans. But, you must remember, our service here is voluntary—theirs isn’t. I refuse to believe there isn't some good people among them.” Arthur flushed slightly. “Let me clarify. I know of one good German. I think that there has to be others.”  
He sat back down, head low.

Amelia stared after him. His voice had cracked on one good German. What was he not telling her?

“Any more questions?” Amelia glanced apprehensively at the clock. Soon the Germans would be patrolling Madame Guilbert's streets and setting up checkpoints randomly across the city. It would be impossible to disperse without attracting anyone's attention.

“How about the British?” A heavy set man in his forties raised his hand politely, like a schoolboy. “Will they be givin’ us supplies for those operations?”

Amelia nodded. “The SOE and the American OSS are committed to your support. They’re counting on your assistance to pull this off.”

“How do things change, mademoiselle, If you don't mind me asking? We already stage disruptions—we can do this with or without the Allies.” The speaker this time was a lanky youth, perhaps a few years younger than Amelia herself, with stubble just beginning to toughen his features, who was leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out straight in front of him, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his wool trousers. “How does this information—or your presence, for that matter—change that?”

“Your efforts are appreciated by the Allies, monsieur, and they want you to continue your sabotaging—and be ready to intensify it by tenfold when the invasion draws near. They feel you are integral to its success and you will be compensated with more supplies, agents and fighters for your efforts. I was only sent to deliver this message—essentially, a glorified telegram. Outside of that, my presence here is of a personal nature.”

“What do you mean, 'of a personal nature?’”

Arthur, once again, took his place at Amelia’s side and wrapped an almost-possessive arm around her waist. “After win this war, I’m going to marry this woman.”

Amelia couldn't help but beam at the pride in his voice.

**Amelia felt like she could finally breathe, like a tonne of bricks bad been lifted off her shoulders, and suddenly gravity no longer applied to her.** The message Arthur expected her to deliver has been shared, her assignment done, and now she felt a strong desire to curl up in a ball in front of a warm fireplace, to pull a thick, soft comforter to her chin and just sleep until the war ended. If not for her other mission, known only to herself and half a dozen people in London, that might have been a possibility in her near future. But her stay might be of some duration if de Gaulle gave Marks the go-ahead. She yawned widely, hiding it behind her hand as she glanced around the room. Résistance leaders discussed the information she’d brought with her to France, planning out what would come next and debating the possibilities. She watched her fiancé as he and Bernard studied map of the Rhône river valley, arguing over a suitable drop site.

In the corner, a lone Frenchman stood in the corner, his back against the wall and a scowl deep in his face. His sun-browned skin stretched over high, prominent cheekbones; his nose was crooked from some past injury. His stance suggested military and a Basque beret hung low over watchful eyes. He was a hunter zeroing in on his prey, one arm hovering near his sidearm, his expression one of weary detachment.

Amelia made her way across the room, attempting to appear serious. A strand of golden hair curled over his brow. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Bruno.”

Francis’s face remained impassive, and his shadow of beard and worry lines added about ten years to an otherwise relatively young (late 30s, maybe?) face. “I’m sure none of what you heard is true.”

Now that she was closer, she could see the tenseness of his shoulders, like he was ever-ready to spring into action. As if a fight might break out at any moment.

Amelia gave him a close-lipped smile. “Dorian told me you’re his best friend. That you go way back an’ all that.” She was surprised that Arthur's alias could slip so easily off her tongue, yet also feel so unfamiliar. “You’ve saved his life more than once, I hear.”

“And he has saved mine.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Francis studies her solemnly, his ocean-coloured eyes hooded. “You understand, mademoiselle, That he will not allow his feelings for you to distract him.”

Amelia flushed. “I-I understand that. I never planned in distracting him.” .

“How long do you plan on staying?”

Amelia hesitated, half-shrugging. “Only a coupla weeks.” She glanced across a room, to where Arthur studied the map. Her heart warmed. “It deeps on what he needs from me, even if it’s jus’ moral support.”

Francis said nothing, so Amelia continued. “I was stupid, Bruno. I had no idea how busy he’d be, really.”

“He loves you. Don't ever think otherwise.”

That pulled Amelia up short—she hadn't expected that. Not from the Francis Arthur had been describing in his letters for month now, at least. “Beg your pardon?”

He continued as if she hadn’t said anything. “Talks about you all the time—about how he’s going to marry you and travel the world together.”

Amelia felt her eyes filling with stinging tears and blinked them back fiercely, cheeks red and lips stretched into a smile.

Francis continued. “You’re very important him. Your plans, your happiness, your everything is very important to him. I bet he already has your kids’ and your grandkids’ names picked out already. But he won’t let anything get in the way of his work. Do you understand?”

“I do.” And she did.

**“I’ve found you a job.”**

Amelia looked up from the window questioningly, eyebrows raised higher than she thought possible. “A job? Whaddya mean?”

“As a teacher at La Maison d’Izieu. A children’s home.” Arthur sat next to her on the sofa, map in hand. “Won’t pay much—just room and board—but Madame Zlatin is a good woman who could use your help with the children she cares for.”

Amelia hesitated and Arthur misunderstood. “Everybody works, love.” He smoothed the map next to him on the seat. “If we didn't have regular employment, people would get suspicious. Besides,” (he gestured on the map), “it’s near the new dropsite.”

Amelia glanced out the window. The last Résistance members had left Madame Guilbert's home, disappearing one at time into the passing traffic with a proficiency borne of years of practice at fading into the woodwork.

Amelia glanced over at Arthur, pushing down a sudden tightness in her throat. “Alright.”

“I’ll make sure you’re safe out of France after the invasion.”

“I know you will.” Amelia poked him in the ribs. “Bruno said I’d distract you and he’s right. You don't need me around to distract you.”

Arthur laughed lightly. “He’s right—you are distracting. But who else will keep me from losing my mind?”

“Bruno?”

“Certainly not,” Arthur snorted. “Bastard’s main source of my madness.”

Amelia chuckled and squeezed his hand. “You’re doing the right thing, Arthur. And you’re the bravest man I’ve ever met for it.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “You, my dear, need to meet more men.”

Amelia leaned her cheek on his shoulder, still giggling lightly. “Oh, Art, I know I took it kinda hard when you left, but you had to help Francis, an’...” She shook her head. “You’ve did the right thing. No matter how worried I am for you, you’ve done the right thing—so don’t feel guilty about it, I can see it on your face—and I trust your judgement.”  
She sighed. “Lettin’ you go was the most difficult thing I’d ever done, I can tell you that.”

“Why was it difficult?” He wrapped an arm around her. “Personally, I’d love to get rid of me, of I were you. I hear I'm awfully boring.”

Amelia smiled. “First off, you’re not—you’re wonderful an’ I love you an’ you damn well better know it.” She snuggled into his side. “Second off, it was hard ’cause I was so determined to marry you an’ graduate an’ travel an’ settings down London an’ raise a family with you, you know?”

Arthur brushed a piece of hair behind her ear. “I felt the same way, darling—still do, in fact. But right now I’m busy with things, important things! We’re fighting a formidable enemy—one who will stop at nothing to destroy us.” He sighed and Amelia noticed the worry lines that had been etched into his face since leaving the States. “And now Bruno is telling me this new bloke is infamous for his ability for his ability to unravel the secrets of the Résistance.”

  
“Ever heard of him before?”

Arthur shook his head.“Nope. He’s a major from Hamburg. Supposedly fluent in French and English. Apparently, working under Schellenberg.” Arthur placed his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples tiredly. “God, what I would give for this war to be over…”

“Can’t you sleep? It's been a long night…” She touched his arm, eyebrows raised in concern. Where is the energetic, charismatic man she’d fallen so deeply in love with? What happened to that mischievous glimmer in his eye, the snarky he’d always seemed to have? Not one since she arrived in this turbulent place had he smiled her in that sarcastic, loving smile he only gave her and that she treasured so much. Again, she felt that pinch of fear in heart—an urgency to leave France and return to her father’s townhouse in Boston. She’d been so excited to return to France, to see Arthur and to help him with his work. But now that she was here beside him, so close she could hear his soft, even breathing and see the confident line of his jaw, somehow she felt more alienated than ever before.

“Sweetheart…” Arthur placed his arm around Amelia’s waist, enveloping her in his warmth, tilting up her chin so that his tired eyes could search hers. Suddenly, he stopped, pulling at the end of one of her curls. “Now that we’re alone, I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “Yes…?”

Arthur cleared his wrong. “Don’t take this the wrong way—I still think you’re very beautiful and it’s just going to take some getting used to it, that's all…” He looked embarrassed and Amelia smiled, pressing her lips together to hold back laughter. “But, why did you cut your hair?”

Amelia giggled. “That’s all?” She them shrugged, almost unconsciously touching a piece of her hair. “I dunno. Needed a change, an’ it's much more manageable now. Much less upkeep, you know? Don’t have to brush it so much.”

Arthur nodded. “I see.” He smoothed down her mess of curls. “Well, it really suits you. Makes you look very grown up.”

Amelia smiled at him. “Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself, honey.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, shaking his head, muttering, “Lies,” under his breath.

Finally, he looked back at her, his expression suddenly serious. “I told you I'm glad you're here and I mean it—you’re like breath of fresh air after months of drowning. And I am so looking forward to the day we can be married. But…,” his expression was almost apologetic, “I need to concentrate on this right now. Many lives are at stake right now—Bruno and I are responsible for them. You understand, right?”

Amelia steadily returned his gaze. “I understand, of course.”

“That’s my girl.” Arthur kissed her on the cheek—much too quickly for Amelia’s liking, but still—and turned back to his map. “Now I’ve got to study this new dropsite—we must get the new coordinates to the Allies. My source tells me there will be another drop tonight, and we have to prepare.”

“How can I help?”

Arthur grabbed two corners of the wrinkled map and began folding it inward. “You can inform our contact while I coordinate the new location with Bruno.”

“Who’s your contact?”

“He owns a café not far from here. He’ll get the word to our men.” Arthur set the map aside and put his full attention to Amelia. “You will go to the café at the corner of Place des Terreaux and Chapelle. You will sit at the counter and order a cup of coffee and a croissant—with marmalade. The barman will tell you he’s out and ask if you want a substitute. You will decline, saying you’ll take your croissant plain.”

Amelia listened carefully, wishing she could take notes on this—she never trusted her memory for anything, let alone something as important as this. Arthur took her hand and folded several coins into her palm. “You’re little exchange will tell our contact all he needs to know. Don't rush. Read the paper. Try to avoid talking to other people—stick to your cover story. Pay the barman and leave when you see me cross the street.”

Amelia scrunched up her nose. “Do I have to order coffee?”

Arthur mimicked her disgusted facial expression before rolling his eyes and shaking his head exasperatedly. “You have to—everybody does. Do you want to draw any unnecessary to yourself?” He ruffled her hair. “Besides, the coffee here is breed with grains, thanks to war. So you’re allowed to complain.”

Amelia sniffed. “Fine.”

“Your exchange with the barman is a coded request that our comrades meet a lot certain location after curfew, where they’ll help us distribute supplies. I’ll pass by the café five minutes after you enter. Observe which way I go. Walk the same direction a few minutes later. Someone will be watching you to make sure you’re not followed.”

“Where will you go?”

“After I talk to Bruno about the new drop site, we’ll get our radio operator to transmit the new locations to London. Then we’re going to find Peter.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “Peter?”

“Seventeen years old. Barely knows what a gun looks like, let alone how to use one. He’s young and inexperienced, but he’s go enthusiasm. And he’ll never forgive the boches for what they did to his parents.”

Amelia put her fingertips to her lips. “What did they do to them?”

“They were shot for harbouring maquisards after an attack on a convoy. He saw the bodies, had to keep them from his little brother—blood everywhere.”

“That’s awful.” Amelia’s stomach felt sick. Would that happen to Madame Guilbert, if she was found out?

“For the past six months he and his brother have been living under assumed names in Belley. They carry carry forged papers provided by the British.” Arthur stood, gathering his things as they went. “You’ll find that everyone has a story—most of them by German oppression.”

Amelia nodded mournfully. She could only imagine how much that must weight on that poor boy. “You said there’ll be someone there to watch me, right? Will I see ’em?”

“No.” Arthur looked distressed. “When you’re delivering, you’ll be on your own. It's better that only one—” He stopped abruptly, lips tight.

Amelia’s gaze was steady. “It’d better that only one person be arrested instead of two—is that what you’re about to say?”

Arthur closed his eyes. “My lover…”

“Don’t you worry ’bout me, Art—I’m here to help and I’m not scared.” Amelia squeezed his hand. “Not scared at all.” It was easy to say, in the daylight, with her hand in Arthur’s. Heaven knows how she’d react if things came to a worse.  
She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you at La Maison d’Izieu. I'm going to wait there until you come for me tonight, right?”

“I’ll come for you.”

“I love you, Arthur.” She whispered his given name and attempted to flatten his unruly hair. “And I’m so proud of what you’re doing.”


	4. a charming young woman from not Paris but Nice

**Amelia paused at the curb across the street from the café, closed her eyes, closed her eyes, took a deep breath.** A chill whispered across the wet stone and combined with the foul odour of ersatz coffee, baking bread and cheap colognes and perfumes. Amelia could almost feel the graveness that a war-torn country such as France always seemed to have in the air. The aroma invaded her senses, heady in its unrelenting intensity. Across the street, a bakery threw open its doors, admitting the first few women at the front of a breadline that blocked the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner inside. A passerby made a derogatory comments about the Germans and was immediately shushed by his wife as the offending party strolled down the street, pedestrians parting around them like the Red Sea, laughing as they did so. One of the soldiers glanced at Amelia and then away, as if her presence was not worthy of his attention, and Amelia was grateful was grateful for the tattered coat and sensible shoes that dulled her into the crowd. If she paused any longer, she’s sure to rouse suspicion. She’d been through an intense orientation before she came, but there was only so much one could learn from a British classroom.

She licked her lips and glanced casually at the retreating backs of the Germans. She purposefully took a step off the curve, head held high.

The café was pleasantly busy. Not in a crowded, stifling way, but full enough that she was confident she wouldn't be singled out. The air was thick with a thin film of cigarette smoke, illuminated by the morning light let through by the large, cheerful bank of windows at the front of the store. Lacy, floral white curtains in need of good washing spanned the windows at chest height, giving the patrons privacy as the ate, but allowing them of a view of pedestrians walking down the street. The only shadow in the room came from the mandatory Nazi flag hanging prominently from the top of the window, it's swastika swaying in the cool morning breeze and it's shadow crawling across the floor, like a dark hand stretching for its next victim.

Amelia strode up to the bar, purposefully ignoring the other café patrons. She slid into a stool and reached for a newspaper, casually scanning the headlined until the barman moved in her direction. His irregular gait told her that he one of his legs was shorter than the other.

“Coffee please, and a croissant. Any chance of marmalade?”

The man shook his head. “No, mademoiselle, I'm completely out, unfortunately. I'm sorry.” He hesitated and then asked, “Perhaps you’d like a substitute?”

Amelia shook her head. She gripped her newspaper tightly to keep her hands from shaking. “No, thank you, monsieur. I will take it plain.”

“Very well.” The barman turned away, his expression betraying nothing. He filled her cup and placed it on front of her with a croissant on a chipped plate. Amelia tossed the coins onto the table Arthur had given to her on the counter and pretended to read the paper.

At first her apprehension kept her from noticing anything more than headlines, all of which seemed to condone the war and the situation in France. Despite her anxiety, she found herself enraged by the newspaper’s contents. What turncoat would write that the occupation was boosting France’s economy? What idiot would claim that a work program that took young men from France to compulsory labour in Germany would be a great benefit not only for those young men, but also the families they left behind? Representatives of the Vichy government admonished their fellow French men to do their duty and register their lineage, reminding Jewish citizens to display their stars at all times and to carry their properly stamped documents.

“Pretty awful stuff, isn’t it?”

Amelia looked up from the paper, brow creased and the corner of her mouth quirked upward. “Excuse me?”

The man who spoke to her sat three rows down—Amelia studied him surreptitiously, remembering what one of her instructors had told her—that she should always pay attention to what's going around without displaying too much interest.

He sat casually, at ease, his left elbow resting on the countertop, and his body turned in Amelia’s direction. His bright blond hair was cropped short, swept back from his face—with his high cheekbones, reddened cheeks and pink lips, a straight nose and a strong chin with a sharp jaw. It was the sort of face you expected to see in Nazi propaganda posters, of the perfect Aryan man, or the sort of face you saw in movies. Attractive, well-made. He smiled at her, pleasant and unassuming, with bright blue eyes to soften his face into an almost boyishness, wrinkling their corners. Broad shoulders hinted at his height and large hands played with a hat on the countertop as he spoke.

“Your coffee. Don't you like it? They say it’s the best France has to offer.” The last part was said with a sardonic twist of his lips.

Amelia blinked at him.

Play the game if you don't want to get caught.

Amelia tried to smiled playfully. “And who says that, monsieur? The owner of the store?”

The man shrugged, still smiling back at her. “I’ve just heard around, here and there.”

Amelia wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry to inform you, monsieur, but you should probably get your hearing checked, if that's the case.”

The man chuckled lightly. “So you don't like it?” he asked again, gesturing to the cup. “You pushed it away without even tasting it, as if you didn't want it.”

Amelia looked down at the counter and sensed a chill go up her spine. Her cup sat on the counter, behind her newspaper, where she wouldn't have been able to reach it without setting her paper down and reaching with her left hand. When had she pushed it away? When she’d been reading that moronic Vichy article? It had been an unintentional habit, borne from a lifetime of hatred of the stuff. She had let her guard down for just a moment, and had already caught the suspicion of the locals and endangered her entire errand and possibly even her life. And the thought terrified her. How could she have been so stupid?

She made a face, cursing herself for never being all that great of an actress, for being so stupid. “It’s disgusting,” she sniffed. “Can’t get used to _ersatz_ coffee.”

He chuckled. “Then why order it, mademoiselle?”

She feigned irritation at his intrusion—_though was it truly fake at this point?_—and met his gaze, lips pursed, clammy hands flat on the counter. “Look, monsieur, it’s really not your concern if—” Her breath suddenly caught as she realised it wasn't her own idiocy that unnerved her—it was the man himself. His appearance was just too meticulous—his wool coat a little too expensive, his dark shirt a little too tailored. His hair was combed too neatly and his hands were too clean, his fingernails trimmed. When he stood to take the empty seat next to her, his step was a little too casual for the military background suggested by the set of his shoulders and the straightness of his back.

Amelia felt her skin prickle. How could she have been so stupid?

  
She forced herself to stay casual.

“You’re new here.” All Amelia could do was keep her mouth shut. “Where are from, mademoiselle?”

Amelia gave him an easy smile, though she could feel her stomach churning. “Why? You writin’ a book?” She leaned in closer to him, trying to keep her voice cheerful. “I always knew I’d be a good heroine, you know.”

Where was Arthur? Surely, enough time must have passed by now. She wet the inside of her mouth, hoping her expression would betray the chaos of her thoughts.

“I must know where they make such charming young women,” he said in mock seriousness. “Every hero has her humble beginnings—where’s yours?”

“Nice.” She swallowed, forcing herself to sound confident.

The man straightened, a lazy smile on his face. “Not Paris? I thought every newcomer was from Paris these days.” His voice was pleasant, cheerful even, but she sensed the accusation in his words.

“Perhaps I’m not like other newcomers,” she said lightly, infusing some flirtation in her tone. “Like a heroine might be, for example.”

The man smiled at her again. “So, what is a charming young woman from not-Paris-but-Nice doing in the Rhône-Alpes? Especially at a time like this?”

Amelia tried to keep her tone light, her expression open and friendly. “Oh, you mean ’cause of the war?”

“Not the most beautiful time of our lives, is it?”

She shook her head in agreement, keeping her eyes on his. His eyes were like pools of crystal clear blue water, deep and inviting, and she was trapped in them—her insides felt fuzzy, her legs like liquid. Could he see what she was thinking and sense her fear?

Cheeks pinkening, she forced her gaze away from his.

  
In that moment, Arthur passed the café window, not even glancing in her direction, striding purposefully past the breadline, and around a corner. Amelia was officially alone in hostile territory, and she quickly averted her eyes from where Arthur had walked past.

The man glanced next to her glanced at the window, then back at her. “Are you waiting for someone, mademoiselle?”

Amelia felt lead in the pit of her stomach, the churning in her gut—had her casual glance in Arthur’s direction really been so telling? She had no idea who this man next to her was, but her instincts told her he was not there to discuss her choice of beverage and the wonders of Nice, France. Arthur had told her to look out for look out for collaborators—French rats spying for the Germans—everywhere, and on her first day she’s cornered by one.

She smoothed her paper down on the counter and tried to look upset. “I was, but I guess he isn’t comin’.”

“That’s unfortunate loss for whomever the lucky young man is.”

Amelia smiled at him. “I appreciate your kindness, monsieur, an’ for keepin’ me company durin’ breakfast, but I really have to go.”

  
She was turning to go, buttoning up her coat and blowing the bangs out of her face, when his large hand closed around his elbow. Startled, she turned and found him gazing at her. His eyes held in their blue depths an interest—an empathy, almost—that she realised he was trying to hide from her, and she felt the terror in her throat rise further and her stomachs’ clenching grew all the more painful.

There was genuine sorrow in his voice when he spoke. “Not everyone in France is your enemy.”

His words shocked and washed her over her head like cold water, like the time she went cliff-diving when her cousins when she was twelve and they lived in Oregon. Her head felt light and her heartbeat quickened. She jerked her arm from his grasp, holding it to her chest while murmuring thank yous, apologies, and goodbyes, and walked out of the café with as much dignity as she could muster, only focusing on keeping one foot in front of the other, her cheeks burning and her neck splotchy. Crossing the street, she prepared to walk in the direction Arthur had gone, but when she hazhaeded a glance over her shoulder, she saw the man leaning in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching her carefully, like a scientist studying an unknown specimen. On a whim, Amelia turned in the opposite direction, counting on her invisible bodyguard to turn her to the right direction eventually, and get her to wherever Arthur needed her to go.

**When Amelia began encoding her message that evening, her hands still shook we she drew her graph, and she could taste blood in her mouth, her cheeks raw from her teeth gnawing on them, as she had wandered Belley, lost in her thoughts**. Using her free hand, she impatiently pushed the hair from her face, eyes stinging with frustration. I’m not cut out for this.

She could just imagine herself in her father’s townhouse in Boston, always with a film of cigarette smoke permeating the air, with rust decorations more fit for a rancher rather than a big-city lawyer that Arthur had claimed given him vertigo when she took him to meet her father after her mother’s funeral. He had immediately taking a liking to Arthur (and who wouldn’t?), clapping him on the back, making jokes, and discussing politics like they’d known each other for years rather than for just a few short hours. Then again, Arthur had a talent for working his way into people’s hearts.

The lead of her pencil snapped and suddenly she was back in reality. Cold, crisp moonlight poured in through the dirty, broken window. Hissing out a cuddle, she used her fingernails to cut through the wood of her pencil and managed to produce a tiny bit of cracked lead.

She just couldn't shake the man at the café, couldn't get the image of his deep, mesmerising eyes of her mind and smooth, baritone voice that could not mark the danger of such a handsome face, the shadows that lurked behind every word on his part of the exchange. His smile had been so charming—disarming, even—the kind of smile that caused romantics like her to swoon (and she might have, before Arthur and under different circumstances). Worse yet—he seemed to have no idea of the unnerving effect he had on her. Or maybe he did, and it was all part of his trap.  
But he was a German—or, at least, in league with them. His interest in her presence was not by happenstance—she doubted she was so charming, men would just gravitate towards her like so. But when Amelia had reported her encounter to Arthur, he only expressed slight concern and another brief warning on what she said to strangers. He was too preoccupied with the stop that night to pay full attention to her story.

As the day dragged on, her unease free until it all culminated inside of her as living presence inside her that tightened her muscles and sapped her strength at the same time, screaming constantly that something is very wrong.

It was nine-thirty, and on front of the WT unit she bent again to her task, alternating between silk and graph as her fingers tapped out the sequence she would transmit, the familiar burn in her forearms making itself known, and she found it oddly comforting,Ike she was back in Grendon, completely removed from this mess. She had to warn London—the Germans may know about the drop and that she would recommend for it to be postponed.

She made it halfway through her security code when the front door exploded inward and heavy footsteps approached the room in a run. Without a second thought—or even one in the first place—she grabbed the silk key, heart hammering in her throat, and launched herself and launched herself shoulder-first into the window, shielding her eyes from the crystalline shards with her arm. She landed on her back and shoulder—a shockwave of pain radiated through her and a howl of pain escaped her lips in a single, silent breath.

She scrambled to her feet, stuffing the silk into her boot and gathering up her skirt, mumbling haggard curses under her breath, and dashed into the shadows, feeling rather than hearing the shouts of “Halt!” and bullets raining down on her like a Florida rainstorm. How long had it taken for them to realise she was there? How did they even find her so quickly? She’d only been on air for five minutes!

She clambered over a low, crumbling stone fence, scraping her hands and knees when she fell to the ground. Thank God her legs were moving of their own accord—and so she kept running, blood trailing down her shins, a cursing steadily all the way through.

Her heart was pounding in her chest like explosives, her pulse screaming in her ears and throbbed all through her neck and body like an ever-accelerating freight train. Her feet flew over the snow and onto the back porch of another abandoned house, her boots slipping on the icy planks, threatening to send her sprawling with each step.

With every ounce of strength she had left—which both felt long gone and infinite, a feeling that she’d never be able to explain to anyone but someone who knew what she meant—if she lived, that is—and launched all of her weight into the door. The rusted hinges groaned as they have way, and the door fell forward with a thunderous clump. She tore down a hallway, dodging broken furniture, bashing her shins against an overturned table on the opposite side of the house, barreling through a creaky front door and stumbling onto a dirty pathway, almost unseeable under the overgrown and yellowing grass.

Without hesitating to look for her pursuers, Amelia sprinted down the pathway, racing headlong into a neglected, decades-old apple orchard, thick with underbrush.

There, Amelia finally allowed herself to rest, wrapping her arms around herself at the bottom of a ditch, counting her breath, thoughts running through her mind—both as numerous and quick as the bullets that chased after her. She watched the darkened shapes of her pursuers, breathing shallow, soft. Momentarily, at least, she’d alluded them. But it wouldn't be too long before reinforcements would be called in, the torches would be lit, the search dogs released, and escape would become a fantasy.  
Staying close up the ground, she followed the ditch, using her elbows to drag her forward, forging through snow and ice-cold water, until she lost feeling in her arms and legs. Sharp rocks poked into her skin, and sticks scraped across her face.

She emerged from the or hard, face and arms scratched from the bramble, clothes torn and dirty, hair in knots. She found herself in a field, dense with last year’s corn stocks. The drooping lives were blessedly still, sagging as she crept through the shadows.

  
The Germans must have been expecting to apprehend her at the table. They were disorganized in their search, their numbers insufficient to comb through the whole countryside, as they otherwise might have. And she at least has a few minutes before reinforcements came in. And she wouldn't waste a second of her precious time.

_Lucky me_, Amelia thought as she hurried away from the scene of the crime.


	5. above Izieu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also just now remembered action/adventure isn't my forte. Hence why I'm practicing. But yeah. Apologies.

**Maybe under different circumstances, Amelia Jones would have climbed the mountain behind her to it's summit and seen the panorama of the Rhône as it snaked around the village of Izieu and headed back to the northeast.** In fact, perhaps she should do that with Arthur, once this war was behind them.

In the morning darkness the reflection of the full moon on the river was probably visible for miles in both directions, and she could see the tiny community below her gradually awaken. Blackout shades would be lifted. Businessmen would migrate in the direction of their respective offices in the surrounding communities, and factory workers on bicycles would sound bells as they wore through uneven streets. Children dressed in multiple layers would clutch the hands of overworked housewives on their way to a crowded marketplace. To the villagers of Izieu, the war had probably seemed insignificant: no Germans patrolled the streets, and, tucked so high in the mountains of east Lyon, not much happened to remind the villagers of war.

Amelia heard the wind moving the treetops at the edge of the clearing. An icy breeze carried the noise past her on its way down the mountainside. She brought her numbed hands to her mouth and blew on them in an attempt to keep warm. Her hair refused to stay tucked under her wool beret and she had long-since given up on pushing her bangs out of her eyes.

She squat there huddled in tangle of bushes at the edge of the clearing, coat wrapped tightly around her torso, and attempting to keep herself from shivering too violently in the bitter morning frost. Her shoulder was still aching from her catapult through the window sux hours before, the arm of her coat in shreds thanks to the glass. But, still, Amelia had to thank God for the fact she survived that whole encounter at all—in one piece, even.

It still bothered her that she hadn't been able to receive a confirmation from Grendon that they’d received her message and that it had been understood. She was positive she’d been cautious—she couldn't imagine where she would have left mistakes in her coding, if any at all. But there was no way for her to know that her warning had been deciphered in time to inform the RAF—and, in fact, she highly doubted it—and she was sure that there would still be a drop that night.

How could she have been so stupid?

Arthur’s arm brushed against her shoulder as he shifted his weight beside her. His hair was characteristically unruly and his cap was set at a rakish angle. She watched the rise and fall of his shoulders, and attempted to sync her breathing to his, barely able to feel the half-smile she gave as she looked up at him from the sheet severity of the cold that night. For a brief second, he turned in her direction and smiled at her, eyes crinkling. He leaned in close and whispered, “I’m glad you’re here, love,” and Amelia cherished the burst of warmth that fanned across her face.

She mouthed “me too” back at him. Perhaps she’d been mistaken, overreacting. It was her overactive imagination and everything was fine—and she was being just plain silly, worrying so much. And, at least while she was in France she supposed she’d have to learn to deal with this worry—on a daily basis, even.

On the opposite side of Arthur, Francis Bonnefoy checked his ammunition, running his fingers lightly across the tops, lips moving as he counted them under his breath, and adjusted the Stenmark slung across his shoulders. His movements were silent and efficient, deliberate and practiced. Like someone who’s been doing this his whole life. Amelia made a mental note to ask where he worked before joining up with the Résistance.

On the other side of Amelia, seventeen year old Peter shifted nervously with his rifle, his breath escaping in short bursts as he shifted positions in the snow. Amelia have him a sympathetic smile and Peter nervously smiled back. God, she hoped he’d be less nervous than he looked when the time came. That he’d make it back to his little brother unscathed. She couldn't bear the alternative.

The wind moaned through bare branches in the trees; somewhere, off in the distance, wolves howled like wounded soldiers. Amelia shivered. Her heavy woolen trousers which Arthur had promptly given to her upon her return from the miraculous escape from capture—luckily, she’d been able to bathe before he saw her—damp with snow and her worn leather boots may as well have not even been there for a the good they did.

Amelia thought she saw another shadow, one that didn't have a place in the night sky. She nudged Arthur in the arm.  
His voice was barely detectable, even though he sat less than a foot away from her. “It won’t be long now, Lénore. Are you alright?” She nodded and strained to listen to the low rumble of the approaching aircraft.

Francis murmured, “Hudson light bomber. She’ll be here in a moment.”

Arthur, Francis, Amelia and Peter removed torches from underneath their coats and Amelia’s fingertips brushed against her Colt. She shivered again.

On Arthur’s nod, they left their hiding place and entered the clearing. Their task was to take formation and use their torches to signal the dropzone to the oncoming aircraft. Amelia moved to position, her torch still unkit as she waited for Francis's orders.

The snow-packed clearing shimmered silver-white, a pool of moonlight. A full moon was imperative for a drop: a pilot had to be able to locate the site, and, at an altitude of about 300 feet, the light could make a contrast between trees and the clearings to a flight navigator. Once the crew located the pinpricks of light on the ground, the plane would increase altitude and circle for another pass, the drop it's cargo as it flew a second time over the clearing.

Several moments passed and the low rumble intensified above the trees. A dark shadow glided over the far edge of the clearing, and Arthur turned on his flashlight and pointed the beam directly upward into the sky. Amelia, Francis and Peter followed suit—Amelia bit on the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood—and held her light steady as Francis signaled the plane with short flashes of a prearranged code.

The twin-engine bomber crossed the clearing and disappeared above the opposite treeline. The engines faded as it circle back to pass overhead once more, this time at six hundred feet. As it appeared against, its shadow spilled a line of shapes that blossomed in the darkness—seven mushrooms floating downward in the night sky. Its task compete, the plane continued west to Lyon.

Amelia watched soundlessly as the grey shapes floating down towards their position. Francis’s voice was both harsh and silent as it rippled across the clearing—“Gather them quickly. Someone will report it to the Germans.”

Many villagers, though amicable during the day, would not hesitate to a file a report to the Germans if they saw a plane circling over a high meadow after midnight.

Arthur ran for the first parachute once the attached canister had settled into the snow—grabbed the billowing material and and crushed it into a bundle against his chest. With a small knife that flashed silver in the moonlight, he cut the parachute away and threw the fabric to the dude. With both hands, he dragged the metal tube to the edge of the clearing.

Another parachute deflated in the snow next to Amelia.

  
Mimicking Arthur’s movements to the best of her ability, she tugged the fabric away from the canister, rolled it into a tight bundle against her stomach and threw it to the side. The straps took several precious moments to separate from the cylinder—face burning, Amelia glanced to where the rest stood at the edge of the clearing. Aside from the one she currently struggled with, the rest had been pulled into a pile at the edge of the clearing. Peter disappeared into the clearing as Francis watched on, his expression unreadable.

  
Amelia continued to wrestle with the container, whispering curses through chapped lips. Taller than herself (though she supposed that wasn't hard) and at least three times her weight, the canister refused to budge. She pushed her hair out of her face and huffed as she continued her task. Her feet slipped in the ice-coated grass and she hissed.

Why had Arthur insisted she come?

He seemed convinced they would need her, that she was imperative to the success of the drop. Why had Amelia gone against her better judgement? Was it those passionate, fiery green eyes? The feeling of his fingers brushing against her cheek? The fact that she was too tired to say “no” as firmly as she wanted to?

Suddenly, Arthur was there, hands on the canister. “I’ve got it, love,” he whispered, and Amelia nodded slowly and began to straighten herself up again. Instant relief. But the embarrassment only intensified.

Francis’s expression was still completely wooden, betraying nothing. But it didn't have to. Amelia could guess what he was thinking. They were probably thinking the same thing: she’s not cut out for this.

Suddenly, Arthur was on the ground, flush against the snow, and motioned with his hand—and Francis did the same, eyes flashing in the moonlight.

Amelia couldn't move. She really couldn't. She wanted to drop to the ground, move behind the canister for protection. But she could only watch—her stomach twisting, her heart hammering, her blood cold—as light flood into the clearing. As Arthur released the safety on his Colt; as Francis readied his Stenmark. Her legs shook. Her head felt light. So so light.

They were going to die. They were going to die.

Now that the plane was gone, far beyond being any sort of help to them, whoever was waiting for them would be acting very soon. Very soon.

And Amelia could only be so lucky, couldn't she?

Crouched in the clearing, Francis and Arthur held their weapons at the ready, no signs of shaking, or fear. Wind ruffled Francis’s shaggy blond hair and Arthur’s face was screwed up in concentration.

Amelia felt herself sinking to the snow, legs like jelly, her face white. Her father was probably asleep at home. Alone. His heart could only take so much, and as long as she was safe, he would be sound.

But she was not safe.

Distinctly not safe.

From the road below, there was a bloodcurdling scream.

Gunshots. Silence.

Amelia’s hair stood on end. Her stomach turned. A bile rose in her throat. They found Peter.

She clutched the handle of her knife tightly, eyes closed, hands shaking. As if her knife could do anything against a hail of machine gunfire.

For one moment, it was like she was dreaming. Like this was a terrible, twisted nightmare. The shadows were too deep, the moon too bright, the air too cold to be reality. And she would wake up in her bed back in London, arms still sore from a day of coding at Grendon. A letter from her father on the table, imploring her on how she’s been, reminding her of how much he loves her. She’s safe, warm. Alive. No Germans bearing down on her.

Arthur rose to his feet, legs sure and solid, squinting against the floodlight, and fires into the light, shattering the glass with a juicy pop! and throwing the clearing back into darkness. Amelia blinked hard to the sudden change in light.

For a split second, everything is still.

Amelia does not wake up.

She gulps, and that seems to be what triggers the bullets to begin flying. A scream bubbled up in her throat and there’s nothing she could do to hold it back.

She could hear Arthur shouting her name as he bolted for the cover of the trees. Amelia stumbled after his voice, slipping in the wet snow, the heat if anger and adrenaline coursing through her veins. Peter’s scream played in her head like a broken record, almost blocking out everything else, and she choked on her own sobs.

_I am not cut out for this._

_I am not cut out for this._

Shouts roared in her ears like thunder and bullets grazed her skin, her clothes. She stretched out her hands and threw herself into the treeline. Her hip crunched sickeningly as it hit the hard-packed snow. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

She blinked. Couldn't stop.

_Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God._

She struggled to get feet, her hip burning. Her vision returned just as Arthur’s hand clamped around her wrist.

“Your father will see his daughter again if it kills me.” Amelia shivered.

_Kills me._

Her legs screamed as she struggled to run in pace with Arthur’s headlong flight. Up ahead, Francis passed beneath the trees like a ghost. Amelia felt the sting of snow against her cheeks as the fallen powder spread the air. More shouting. Gunshots. Tears. Pain. Darkness.

“What about Peter?” Throat raw. Nose running. Lungs on fire. Her voice was a squeak. Barely audible. Did she even say anything? Thoughts too addled to tell.

“Nothing we can do.” Arthur threw her a worried glance, like she might do something stupid. No need. I’ve already done something stupid. “Someone’s betrayed us to the _boches_.”

  
“We can’t just leave him. His brot—”

“Better one of us than all of us.”

Amelia choked.

The terrain changed, sloping upward. Branches laden with snow tore at Amelia’s arms and clouded her vision. She clutched Arthur’s hand like a lifeline (and he actually was, she supposed) and she glanced over her shoulder. They were leaving a path in the snow—of course they were. And the moonlight hid nothing from their pursuers.

“Who knew about the drop?” There was point trying to hide the panic raising her voice. No point in trying to hide the uncontrollable sobs. She was weak and Arthur deserved to know that.

His grip on her hand steadied her as they climbed up the slippery face of a boulder.

Francis above them. “They’re right behind us.”

Arthur clambered up next to Francis and heaved Amelia up alongside him. He glanced up the slope. “Need t’ finda place t’ hide.”

“Hide?” Francis seemed almost too calm for the situation. “The new boches’s a bloodhound. There’s nowhere we can go where he won’t find us.”

“Might ge’ lucky.”

“Let’s keep moving.” Amelia was surprised by the sudden steadiness in her voice. She touched Arthur’s sleeve. “We can at least try.”

Arthur pulled Amelia forward. “We’ll leave withou’ you, bastard.” Francis moved past them, deeper into the forest, scowling, and Arthur followed, tugging Amelia along.

Behind them, the sounds of pursuit. Barking dogs. Heavy boots crunching the snow. Shouting. Gunshots. It was panic, Amelia was pretty sure, that was keeping Amelia with her companions’ rapid paces. There was no blocking out the sounds, no thinking of anything other than a bullet tearing through her flesh. Well. Aside from Arthur, cold and lifeless.

Abandoned. Germans taking it away, to be thrown God knows where.

When her mother died, her father had told her the death had been peaceful and a blessing. Amelia had hoped it would feel the same for her. Now, that seemed an unlikely luxury.

“Up ahead!” Amelia followed Arthur’s finger to a small river cutting across their path. He wasted no breath examining his intentions, simply running to his discovery.

On the opposite banks, the ground sloped downward for several hundred yards before rising again toward the summit. The depression acted as a natural wind tunnel, channeling the cold air across the slope with such a force that it kept the area clear if snow.

“It will cover our tracks,” Amelia breathed as Arthur searched for a way to cross the icy flow.

Amelia glanced down at the stream, clutching Arthur's hand so tight she thought she might break it. She saw what she needed. “This way,” and she pulled Arthur with her, towards a tree that had fallen across the river.

“God, I hope that's sturdier than it looks.” He pushed Amelia behind him. “A tumble’d probably kill you.”

He tested the lot with his foot before carefully stepping into the centre and leaning forward. It settled under his weight but held steady. Arthur shuffled across the tapering trunk until it bowed under his weight and disappeared into the swirling pitch. He hesitated before jumping into the snow on the opposite bank.

Arthur spun around and gestured so violently for Amelia she thought he might topple over. She stepped into the log, forcing herself not to look at the churning water below her. She grasped a branch for support, maneuvering across the branch like a tightrope walker. At the point where the tip submerged into the current she lunged forward like a feral cat to the opposite bank and landed squarely next to Arthur.  
Francis quickly followed after her then turned to dislodge the makeshift bridge from the bank, kicking the now-splintered truck into the violent water.

“Anything for a few extra minutes, right?” Amelia had to agree as Francis shifted the strap of his weapon and faded into the trees’ protective shadows.

They continued downstream for several hundred yards before sprinting across the valley. Amelia’s thighs screamed and her lungs were desperate for oxygen. They stayed under the cover of trees whenever possible. Amelia heard no sounds of pursuit, but she didn't dare glance over her shoulder to check. Not until she was sure they were gone.

  
Gunfire burst out behind them and a branch near Amelia’s head exploded into kindling. Amelia stumbled back sideways, a cry escaping her lips, gasping. Another shot brushed against her cheek, light as a feather, before burying into the tree next to her with a dull thud.

Arthur looked over shoulder. “All right?”

Amelia nodded, eyes wide. No amount of training could've prepared her for the sheer terror of being tracked by a gunman. Somewhere behind them, a German sniper had them in and out of his sights, and he was taking every advantage to fire in their direction. Amelia swallowed her fear and moved forward.

They reached the other side of the valley and began climbing up the slope. For several blessed moments, the ground rose gently, and the tree-cover thickened, tangled branches catching at clothes, skin, hair. Arthur’s voice was ragged when he spoke—“Not Alpine. Maybe we can outrun.”

Francis shook his head. “Tracking us without a moment’s difficulty anyway.”

“What do we do?” Amelia felt their rapid ascent in every muscle. Up ahead, the mountain steepened considerably and jagged rocks pushed upwards, as if holding back a web of stars. Between boulders, the silent shadows of trees rose against the summit.

Arthur studied the terrain, forehead slick with sweat. Amelia could almost hear his ribs rattling as he took in more and more air. “Any ideas, Bruno?”

Francis wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, voice like gravel. “We have the higher ground. Can’t outrun them.”  
Arthur glanced at his friend and an understanding passed between them. “Remember Eze?”

Francis smiled grimly. “Best hunting trip we’ve had.”

Arthur turned to Amelia. “Brother convinced us higher ground is better for hunting.” He pointed through the trees toward an outcropping halfway up the slope in front of them.

Amelia looked where Arthur pointed, studying the moonlight reflecting off the smooth surface of the rocks. Her jaw went slack. “It’s…” Too steep, she wanted to say, but she didn't have the breath for it. She looked to Arthur, eyebrow raised. “What’re you plannin’?”

Again, Francis and Arthur exchanged glance. “Out of options, love.” His voice was practised, measured, careful—like he was talking to a child. “The Germans…”

Francis didn't even bother to look her in the eye. “We have no choice.”

Amelia took took in a shaky breath, chest constricting. “You’re gonna fight.” Her voice was thin, like glass. “You’re gonna ambush ’em.”

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't swallow the fear crawling up her throat.

“I know this is hard—”

“There’s gotta be another way.” She sounded desperate, even to herself. Her gaze was locked on Arthur’s face—his painted expression, his long, cold-pinkened nose, the determined set of his jaw, thin chapped lips. How his eyes were so vivid, even in the silvery paleness of the night. She had to memorise it, but couldn't bear to think of why she needed to.

“Unless you’re proposing we surrender,” Francis sneered, eyes narrowing.

Amelia’s cheeks felt hot. “Perhaps we should.” Her voice was dumb, achy, strained by tears. Even she could hear it.

She had been so stupid for coming here.

Francis’s eyes flashed, cutting her to the bone. Amelia looked back to Arthur, who pulled up his eyebrows. “You know we can’t do that, love.”

Amelia faltered, lowering her gaze. He was right, of course. They both were. The Germans were merciless. They would torture her, him, Francis—do anything they could to squeeze out information about the Allies, the Résistance, their plans. She would hold her tongue—of course she would—loose lips sink ships and all that—and she would only be tortured more for it, put through more pain than she thought imaginable. She’d be beaten senseless, dehumanised in every aspect of her being—a regular Jean Moulin. The ground no longer felt quite so solid.

“They’ll kill us.” Her voice was tinny, faraway. Warmth trailed down her cheeks. Damn her, damn her, damn her.

“They’ll try.” Francis sounded impatient. “And we’ll pick them off one by one as they try to climb up the mountain.” His voice was low and dangerous. Amelia shivered.

“Until your ammunition gives out,” (her voice rose with hysteria, but Amelia couldn't bring herself to really care), “and they’ve gotten they’re damn reinforcements. Then what?”

Arthur held her shoulders, too firmly to be comforting. “We have to try.”

Amelia stared at him through misty eyes. This was happening. It was happening. And there was nothing—nothing—she could do to stop it. “Okay.”

She doubted they even heard her.

“If we die,” Francis turned toward the slope, shoulders squared, “we give ’em hell for it.”

Arthur’s voice was soft. “Love, I want you to run—as far away as you can. Don't come back, turn around, anything—no matter what you hear, what you see. No matter what. Promise me.”

Amelia sucked at her lips. “I-I can fight…”

Arthur’s eyes practically glowed from his intensity. “Amelia Jones, promise me. Promise me you’ll get away, go back to America. Promise me.”

Amelia opened her mouth to argue. She couldn't just leave him at the mercy of the Germans—couldn’t just leave him to die out in the cold. But she saw his expression darken.

“I promise.” The words burned on her tongue. If Arthur got so much as a scrape, she’d never forgive herself. A boulder had settled in her stomach—she doubted it would ever go away.

Amelia ran to the outcropping with Arthur close behind. With every ounce of energy she had left in her, she attacked the slope, clutching at the terrain with raw, bleeding hands—with her elbows, knees, boots. She weaved through clusters of trees, arms wrapped around her chest, skirting close to walk of the mountain, paying no attention to the drop off into an abyss of inky blackness, just inches from their path.  
Arthur panted lightly behind her and Amelia tried to take comfort in that he was there, with her. Above her, Francis had reached the end of the trail, where the moonlight highlighted the sporadic rock formations. Gunshots echoed around the mountainside as hidden sharpshooters tried to pluck her off the face of the cliff. Francis disappeared over the edge of the nearest boulder, keeping his nose the ground. He kept his head below the rocks as he motioned for them.

Amelia felt a morbid curiosity, to turn, see her pursuers, hidden somewhere in the shadows behind him. In her mind's eye, she saw demonic eyes, shining through darkness, tracking her every step. A predator intent on the kill. Revulsion shook her body. She picked up speed, clawing her way to Francis, lungs shuddering with effort, Arthur whispering encouragements behind her—he grasped her waist and lifted her the few remaining feet upward, until she could take Francis’s hand.

As Francis's grip on her hand tightened, and she began to pull herself up the rest of the way, there was a sharp burst of machine gun fire. The sickening thud of bullets meeting skin, a weak moan. Arthur's grip on her waist loosened—she could feel his torso lean agonizingly against Amelia's legs, then roll away, gravity dragging him downwards.  
He twisted like a rag doll in air, falling through the underbrush. Amelia screamed as she tried to pull her hand from Francis's death grip.

“He’s dead, Lénore.” His voice cut through her, left her veins ice cold. “We have to let him go.”

“We can’t leave! We can’t leave him!” It wasn't her own voice. It was high, screaming, like a vase bring shattered on the floor, like wind howling through trees. Tears burned hervetes, bile clogged her throat.

With her free hand, she dug at Francis’s fingers, nails digging deep into his skin, until he swore and dropped her hand like a hot stone. She slid several feet down the slope, until she found her footing. Francis’s voice above her—“I can’t be caught. You understand.”

Amelia nodded, and with one last haunted look in her direction, Francis disappeared. The boulder in her stomach grew heavier.

Amelia turned and sprinted down the slope, willing her legs to stay under her. Her entire frame shook violently and the wind whipped through her hair, her beret long-since fallen off. Cold wind froze the sweat on her face.

Arthur would be alright. He had to be. He he had to be. The Arthur she knew wouldn't die like this. He wouldn't. He wouldn't.

She ignored the dark shapes following her. Ignored the fact that they’re weapons were most likely on her. That she was going to die. Die. Die.

Arthur wouldn't die.

She won’t allow it.

She found herself beside Arthur’s still form, vision blurring. Her hands trembled as she lifted his head into her lap. Something warm, wet, and sticky trailed down her wrist and looked at her side. His breath, shallow and weak, hardly there, escaped his crushed chest in small puffs of air.

Amelia stroked his matted hair, whispering his name over and over and over again. A broken record.

Now his hair decides to lie flat.

Arthur’s lips moved, dark and shining with blood, as if to speak, but nothing but air came out.

Amelia felt dizzy. Her stomach churned like a turbulent sea. She forced herself to smile. She had to. He loved her smile. He always told her how much he loved her smile. He'd want to see it now. “You’ll make it, Art. I know you will. Francis says you’re too stubborn to die, remember?”

Arthur’s eyelids fluttered. A trembling hand reached outward, ghostly pale. His fingers barely brushed her chin before falling uselessly into the snow. Amelia gathered it into her hands and pressed against her cheek. It felt like ice, with none of the strength it usually had.

She couldn't keep her voice from shaking. “You’ll be fine. Jus’ fine.”

She hated lying, even if it was to herself.

Gently, she smoothed back his damp hair and kissed his forehead, sticky with cold sweat. His lips moved again as she pulled away. She didn't need words to accompany it to know what he meant.

A cord snapped inside her.

“I love you too, Art. So, so much.”

A sob escaped her.

She kept smiling.

She stroked his cheek as he shuddered one last time. His eyes flew open, completely still, and glued to her face. There was no more vividness in them. His jaw went slack. His whole body went limp in her arms.

The moon was so beautiful that night. She could see that, reflected in glassy eyes.

A sound to her left startled Amelia back to reality, and she jerked her head to the source of the noise, eyes wide, feral.

This was it.

Ten yards away, a tall German officer appeared from the shadows, soldiers that brandished rifles fanning out from behind him. He approached her deliberately—Amelia felt her heart go faster, louder, with each step. His shiny black boots sank into the snow and his dark overcoat trailer down past the tops of his boots to brush against frozen grass like the whispers of a ghost. Darkness his his features like a mask, but as he drew closer, Amelia sensed a strange familiarity in his presence. She watched, skin cold and clammy, heart numb, as he bent one knee into the snow. From under the brim of his hat, he studied her unruly hair, reddened face and winter-paled skin.

Amelia gasped as she took in his features—the strong nose, the proud jaw, the long, pale eyelashes.

The man from the café.

Of all the men in France her pursuer just had to be him. Amelia cradled Arthur’s head, trying not to shudder. Death looks nothing like sleep, and there is no peace in his eyes.  
The officer searched her face, his expression stern, serious. A wall of stone. And completely unreadable.

“He’s dead.” Her voice trembled with accusation. Her throat felt swollen, tongue like sandpaper. She felt like she was drowning in syrup—everything felt slow, clumsy, distorted.

The man leaned in closer to study him, and Amelia tightened her grip, leaning over his body protectively. Amelia said again, louder this time, “He’s dead.”

The officer leaned in closer to Arthur and Amelia’s arm shook with the effort to not slap him way. Tears burned her eyes.

For a split second, he froze. Amelia's breath caught in her throat. The officer whirled around, shouting harshly to his men, and two soldiers turned to face down the slope. He removed his overcoat, and before Amelia could stop him, tucked it around his body with a surprising gentleness.

Amelia blinked back tears.

“I will get a doctor for him, mademoiselle.” His voice was strangely tight and all Amelia could do was give him a dumb stare. He placed a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder. “Please stand up, mademoiselle.”

Amelia recoiled from his touch, tearing her eyes away from his probing gaze. And when he rose and offered her a gloved hand, she only clung onto Arthur’s body tighter, tears rolling down her cheeks and landing on his face.

They would shoot her before she moved. She didn't care. Nothing else mattered to her anymore, then Arthur not being left alone in the cold.

Another soldier nudged her with the tip of his gun and she braced herself for the impact. She couldn't explain it, but she felt ready to die. She really did.

Another soldier reached down and hauling her firmly to her feet. Her shoulder strained against his touch as he escorted her away from the scene, his nose wrinkled in disgust.  
The last thing she saw was the officer continue to stare at the lifeless body of Arthur Kirkland.


	6. where is Francis Bonnefoy?

**When the Italian Zone turned its management of affairs over to the Germans, they had left southern France in a state of unrest.** At least under the Italians, the people had felt some semblance of control over their own lives. The Italian armies, with their friendly ways and casual supervision, did not spark the same hatred in the Résistance and the maquisards as did the Germans garrisons that intimidated formerly Vichy towns.

However, “intimidation” may not have been the best description of German tactics in Belley as of the November in 1943. Just the simple fact they were enemy forces sent to crush any opposition - or whatever they saw as opposition, in anyway they deemed fit - sent French citizens into a frenzy. How could they even begin to continue their way of life under the thumb of the dreaded, and most of all, hated, German boches?

When they first arrived the previous year, the Germans tried to be cordial with their reluctant neighbours, and officers were under orders to treat the local population with respect and try to limit confrontation whenever possible But under the circumstances it was understandable with greetings were ignored or when mothers pulled their children away from approaching troops in order to avoid contact. As time passed, however, a percentage of the good citizens of Belley and surrounded communties softened to the occupation. A pleasantry here, a conversation there - and since the “non-fraternization policy” imposed on the troops by the new Nazi major extended only to trysts with members of the opposite sex, as time went by and many citizens relaxed their distrust of the Germans, on a weekend it was not uncommon to see Germans and Frenchmen drinking together in the cafés along the Place des Terreaux or in the many other establishments throughout the city.

The major himself, of course, almost never made an appearance in these drinking circles, and so his reputation developed principally by what information passed between drunken soldiers and their local drinking buddies. Members of the Résistance gained a reluctant respect for the new head German in town while they friendshipped his young troops and enticed them with any available alcohol. They plied the inexpirienced boches for information on the major’s plans and movements within the scope of southern France (as they cared little about much else, unless told otherwise by the SOE), and when their unwitting German sources became too drunk to do much more than babble, the Frenchmen carried the information to their superiors.

In return, the major had himself his own spies and gained a good amount of his information from his informants from around the city, in exchange for extra rations. It seemed the Allies had plans for the coming year, which he’d predicted en route. And, in order to enact these plans, it seemed, they needed the cooperation of Résistance in France and Belgium - connections they were definitely trying to implement now. Again, he’d predicted as much. Throughout France, there’d been reports of an influx of Allied agents over the past weeks, as if de Gaulle was organising some sort of enormous activity - possibly to distract the Germans, keep them looking in the opposite direction. Rumour in Lyon held that the Allies were planning an invasion of some sort - and the major’s orders from his superiors gave high priority to the apprehension and interrogation of all Allied agents and _maquisards_. And so a good amount of German espionage also took place among French drinking tables in Belley. That, of course, is how he knew of a pending arrival of an American woman and tracked her and her French connections in his _départment_. He’d found much on her in his research, and when his source had pointed him to her yesterday morning, he had been ready to arrest her. More than ready, even. But he was patient. The major was a very patient man. She would be more helpful allowed to roam the streets than in an interrogation room right then - especially if she could lead him to the one known as “Bruno.”

Major Ludwig Beilschmidt had been tracking that man for weeks - ever since he’d been assigned to Belley and heard the tales of an elusive escape artist, a regular Houdini, who terrorised German garrisons from Lyon to Marseilles. Several times, he’d been so close to apprehending Bruno, but each time he’d managed to slip into the shadows, undetected. Ever the ghost, Bruno seemed to always be one sabotage ahead of him and one contact richer.

Until today, of course.

Until today, Bruno could have brushed Beilschmidt by on the street and the major would never have been the wiser. But this morning when the fourth member of the damned group somehow managed to escape, even when cornered . . . well, that man could only be on person, and that person was Bruno. He just knew that it had to be him. And when he saw his face in the floodlights - he knew him. Knew his face, anway. He’d seen him around Belley, laughing and drinking with off-duty soldiers in the cafés and teaching in the école primaire during the week. In fact, Major Beilschmidt remembered the man had spoken with him - brief and innocent, a simple request in front of a bar on the Place des Terreaux. If this man were actually Bruno, then he knew his name - his real name, at long last - and the American would be the perfect candidate to help track him down.

As his driver turned the black Citroën into the Place des Terreaux, Ludwig Beilschmidt could see the two sixteenth-century towers of the Château de Lafont in the distance. Soon the entire structure would be visible, with its classical European architecture and Roman-inspired stone arches. The château belonged to a Monsieur Jean-Motier Boisseau, but the major had requisitioned it bofr German use after his arrival that year. HIs troops had applauded the change - from a low sone barracks on the outskirts of civilization where dinner was served chuckwagon style in the courtyard, to the luxurious mansion in the centre of town. Monsieur Boisseau had not been enthusiastic about the situation, but what could he do? These were Germans, not Italians. So he had shrugged his shoulders and moved in with his eighty-year-old mother in Lyon with the rest of his family.

The major’s driver turned into the stone courtyard of the Chateau des Lafont. Several trucks and a lorry were parked in front of the wide stairway, and as his vehicle circled the courtyard he saw metal cylinders tacked amid bundles of parachutes in the open back of one of the trucks. The confiscated Allied supplies represented a dismal failure for bruini and a severe blow to the maquisards, who would be expecting the armaments and provisions donated by the Allies. HIs troops would have returned several hours ago with their prisoner, since the major had opted to complete a bit of unfinished business at the location of the Englishman’s death before returning to Belley. He waited for his driver to open the door, the stepped on the cobblestones and stretches, his strong body upright and his back slightly arched as his long arms reached skyward. He stifled a yawn and moved toward the stairs.

His entire body ached from the morning’s exercise. He had severely underestimated Bruno’s tenacity, it seemed, and he and his troops paid for it physically. But at least none of them had been shot. He wouldn't have to write condolences to some windowed mother Gin Germany saying that her only song had been shot in the line of duty and had died a hero of the Third Reich.

Entering the main reception area, the major removed his overcoat and handed it to his aide. He walked across the marbles tiles and climbed the grain staircase toward the second floor and his office. He allowed himself a glance downard, to where the staircase spiraled into the darkness of the cellar - used as a dungeon in the sixteenth century and a prison for POWs during the Great War. How ironic that just twenty-five years later, dungeons used for German prisoners in 1918 should now house Germany’s enemies. The woman from that morning was probably now waiting in a cell below him. She was a strange, charming little thing.

  
He closed his office door behind him, tossing his hat onto the desk next to a book and a photograph of his wife.

  
Beilschmidt sat behind his desk and leaned his head into his hands. His temples had throbbed ever since the capture and how he tried to lessen the pain by massaging them with his forefingers.

She was strange indeed, that American woman. Brash. Loud. Quick. Irreverent. Reckless. Different. She could’ve been killed, in her headlong flight to get to that man’s side - he never thought such a slight, defenseless figure could be so startling. And that glare … that glare.

He’d be surprised to ever get that face out of his mind.

  
For once, Ludwig Beilschmidt was dumbfounded. For once, he hadn't known.

Because, if he had, he would have moved heaven and earth to bring Arthur Kirkland in alive.

**Blindness caused the other senses to sharpen dramatically.** And as Amelia stared into the black of her confinement she knew this was true. And that blindness, that panic, that unknown and that morbid anticipation of the future made her no better than a corners animal. She learned sideways until she felt the mousire of the cool stone wall pressed against her cheek. The scent of the centuries- old decay was overpowering, nauseating, and she white-knuckled the rough-hewn bench to keep herself awake and aware, tired as her limbs were, exhausted as her mind was, heavy as her eyelids had become. Her heartbeat seemed to fill the room, echo off the walls, like the beat of a drum. It was the only thing real outside of the cold, outside of the dried blood crusted onto her hands that seemed to burn into her skin. She swallowed, but nothing could get rid of the acid dryness on her tongue, in her throat.

Everything was hazy, dreamlike. In her thoughts, Arthur’s eyes were too green, hair too blond, blood too red, snow too white. It was a painting, a branding—and Amelia still felt the weight in her lap, the ghost of a hand she would never touch again.

He used to make her tea every morning, used to hold doors open for her, used to read her to sleep with his favourite books. He used to randomly swing her up into his arms, protesting wildly—carry her books when she complained they were too heavy. Race her on walks, up the stairs. Ballroom dance to the radio in their flat’s front room, like grandparents. They could talk on and on for hours about anything, sheltered in each other’s warmth, planning their future so meticulously, it seemed impossible that it wouldn’t come true. Smiling. Laughing. Happy.

He once told her that he made her feel like a lovesick schoolboy and the proudest husband there could be all at once. That she kept him young, always looking forward. That she balanced him out perfectly.

They were happy.

She scratched her nails lightly across the stone wall, slick with condensation. Her heart was somewhere in the mountains, in Arthur’s cold, still hands, shiny with his blood. It had died with him.

The loud shriek of a telephone startled her back to the present. One of her guards answered it, still laughing at whatever his comrade had just said, though Amelia couldn’t imagine them having anything that funny to say. Save the deaths of innocents, of course. However, the strain of mirth in his voice quickly changed to respect as he conversed with the speaker on the other side of the line.

Lights came on in the corridor outside her cell. Approaching footsteps -- loud, heavy. Amelia straightened, forcing her eyes to stay open. Tried to breathe normally. Stay calm. For Arthur. France. The Résistance. Her life. Family. Europe. France. The Allies.

She wasn’t ready for an interrogation—her thoughts still swirled around in a disconnected mess and she felt sick to her stomach. Beatings. Bruises. Broken bones. Execution. Her knees trembled. Would she even be able to stand? Her nails bit into sweaty palms. Silent prayers with no real words crowded her thoughts. She was dead. Her family devastated. Mission failed. Didn’t keep her promise to Arthur. Please, God, let Francis have escaped. Gotten away. Far away. To safety.

_Viva la Résistance._

_Viva la France._

The door slammed open—light flooded her cell. She squinted against it, jaw set.

“Auf deinen Füβen! Schnell!” One of the guards wrenched her from her bench, fingers digging into her arm. Her legs shook as she was hauled towards the narrow door, already lightheaded with exhaustion. She walked between her escorts, sullen-faced—through the corridor, leaving behind the dampness of the basement by way of a curved staircase for the grandeur of the château’s marbled entryway to the second floor.

If it hadn’t been for her current situation, she might of been ogling her surroundings, absorbing every detail. She’d always had a fascination with Rococo-style architecture.

At the top of the stairs, the guards escorted her to a large office at the far end, with a heavy wooden door that might’ve been oak or cedar. Inside it—a large framed photo of Adolf Hitler among his cronies on the wall, behind a large, ornate, polished desk. The kind her mother always wanted her writing room, but what with the Depression and all, they couldn’t afford. A coat stand in the corner, heavy-laden with hats, scarves and a long overcoat that almost reached the floor. On the desk - haphazardly spread, her French identification papers. An address book. Documents printed in German. A small pencil holder, fashioned in the shape of the fish, filled to the brim. A mug, still steaming, full of fresh coffee—a scent that permeated the room. Amelia swallowed down her thirst, frowning.

Light from a narrow window fell on a small, framed portrait of a young woman, propped against the telephone on the desk. She seemed to be in some sort of booth, elbows propped on a table, long-stemmed wineglass in a gracefully delicate hand. She was centre-shot, laughing, wisps of hair falling into her face—long eyelashes brushed against high cheekbones, her shoulders curled forward, in a necklace that took the shape of a waterfall of diamonds down her dress and a silken dark dress. She smiled at the camera, as if the looker was the object of her affection.

Amelia was startled by the sound of the door opening at the opposite end of the room, and she looked up to see the German from the mountainside approaching the desk. She straightened to face him, hoping the fear wasn’t as obvious as it felt. She knew what was going on; her training had taught her that much. “_A Nazi officer’s presence was intended to have a powerful effect on the prisoner. The cut, colour, and insignia on the uniform have been meticulously designed to project superiority, power and authority_.” Standing here, in the commanding presence of this officer, she could now understand the reasoning behind these statements (after all those weeks she spent, mocking their supposed childishness), even now. It was hard not to, in the light, now that she could see all the little details she’d missed that morning.

He was a _Sturmbannführer_ \-- the German equivalent to a major, she noted, recognising the insignia she had studied in her course with the SOE. His gray visor cap displayed the SS eagle and the _Totenkopf_ embroidered with silver bullion over a dark gray background. HIs dark gabardine wool tunic was buttoned to his throat and had silver and white piping along the collar tabs with the SS symbol on the left collar and the for pips of a Nazi major on the right. His broad shoulders displayed the braided silver epaulettes of high ranking officer proudly, and his double-breasted tunic was belted at the waist with a wide black leather belt, aluminum buckle, and cross-strap that had been a staple of the German military uniform for decades now. His trousers seemed to be the same material as his jacket, and they tapered to his knees before disappearing into black leather boots with knee-high uppers. On his belt he carried a leather gun holster and a small straight dagger in a silver-inlaid scabbard. Black gloves completed the ensemble, and Amelia felt the whisper of panic that had probably been intended by the sight.

The major hung his cap on the stand, before turning his gaze to Amelia. She set her jaw, kept her gaze steady. Hoped he didn’t notice her trembling hands. She kept her eyes locked on his own and he seemed to study her face in some sort of strained disinterest.

But she supposed she might’ve been imagining things.

He was a walking contradiction. His tall, muscular frame suggested power -- that he’s something to be feared, something she should avoid at all costs if she knew what was good for her. But his hands -- though he held her life in them -- reminded her more of her father’s -- large, strong and callused, a mechanics or a carpenter's -- than a torturer's, his face holding none of the cruelty she had come to expect. He seemed almost like the sort of man that would enjoy a quiet fishing excursion, rather than an enlistment in the Führer’s illustrious service.

His expression was guarded but pleasant and from the picture on his desk -- well, there must have been a shred of compassion in his life. Could she be his wife?

_Poor girl._

The major did not take a seat -- he continued to probe at her face, watching her every movement carefully. Studying her for weakness. This might have been a lecture from an employer or father, if not for the intimidation of his authority and rank, that she was completely powerless to him.

Amelia squared her shoulders and stood stiffly in front of him. She would not be thrown off balance.

He issued a short command -- not in the bark she’d come to expect from people of his rank -- and, without a word, the soldiers saluted, turned, and left the room. Amelia felt dizzy. Here was a man who expects to be listened to. She shifted; she’d never felt so alone before. Ever.

“Major Ludwig Beilschmidt of the Allgemeine SS, assigned to gather intelligence on insurgent activities in the Rhône-Alpes by Major Walter Schellenberg -- personally.”  
And though he was direct, his voice was companionable, gentle almost, his French nearly flawless. Amelia licked her lips, unsure of what the major expected from her at this point.

Major Beilschmidt picked up the photograph from his desk. “As I entered, I noticed you’re interested in this.” He held it out to her. “Please, feel free take a closer look. This is my wife, shortly after we were married.”

Amelia awkwardly took the photo into her hands. It was like she was equal to him, almost. Like they were acquaintances of some kind. Trying to show he was human, she guessed. Put a crack in her resolve. The absurdity of it was that when she allowed herself to look into his eyes, he almost seemed it.

Her throat tightened. She wouldn’t play into his trap.

“She is very beautiful.” She brushed the fingertips over the glass.

“She is.” Warmth in his voice. It almost sounded genuine.

Amelia ignored that. “Is she with you? In Belley?”

“No.” Tone clipped. Warmth gone.

“When will you see her again?”

Major Beilschmidt frowned. “Not for a very long time, it seems.” Exhaustion, but just a hint.

“It must be difficult to be away from your family, monsieur.” She handed him the photograph and he carefully set it back down on his desk.

“It is, mademoiselle.”

“Is she in Germany then?”

The major was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Yes.”

Amelia brushed her hair from her face, her mind coming up blank. She needed to keep him talking -- but, really, what else was there to say?

She swallowed under his scrutiny.

“You are young, mademoiselle. How old are you?” Matter-of-fact, like he already knew the answer and was just asking out of formality.

“Twenty-four.”

“And what prompted you to come to France?” But it wasn’t in French anymore. He had slipped into English as fluidly as a slow-flowing river, and Amelia almost hadn't noticed.

Her heart burned and her breath shook. He’d known more than expected -- and she had nothing. Her really did hold all the power, and it was all Amelia could do to not cry, despite the way her throat flexed.

She puckered her brows and quirked her lips, leaning into him slightly.

He smiled amusedly. “What made you decide to come to Belley?”

Still in English.

_Damn_.

“Je ne comprends pas.”

“Yes, you do understand.” He was enjoying himself. Amelia’s blood simmered. “It will be easier for both of us if you cooperate.”

Amelia’s heart thumped against her sternum, trying to break free. She frowned, shaking her head in what she hoped look like confusion.

Major Beilschmidt sighed. “Your name is Amelia Lucille Jones, an American citizen. I’ve known long before you capture there was an Allied agent in my district -- even before you lost your goggles in the mountains.” His bright eyes shone. “Now, please tell me, Ms Jones, why you are here.”

Amelia flushed scarlett. How had he thwarted them—the Résistance, the Allies, herself—so easily? Sighing, she switched to her native tongues, eyes trained on the floor. “To visit a friend.”

“The British have gone through quite a bit of trouble to finance a friendly excursion then, don’t you think?” He smiled at her. “Please tell me the real reason why, Amelia Jones.”

Amelia met Major Beilschmidt’s gaze, face still warm, and said nothing.

“I have asked you politely to cooperate. Answer my question, please.” His expression was still unnervingly pleasant.

Amelia bit down on her tongue hard enough to draw blood. Her expression did not change.

“You were arrested for suspicions of collaboration with the Résistance. You were found in the Izieu area with suspected rebels, assisting in gathering a British supply drop.” His voice remained professional—not a hint of malice or accusation. Already, there were all facts to him. “Again, I will ask you: why are you here?”

Amelia felt cold. She chewed the inside of her cheek, desperate for a response. Any response.

“You are very well-trained. I’ll give you that much, Amelia Jones.” Major Beilschmidt sat behind his desk, studying her face. “You are afraid of me, Ms Jones?”

Amelia lifted her chin, eyes narrowed.

“They are thorough in their training, are they not?” His eyes darkened. “But I am also very through, mademoiselle. I will take as much time as I need to discover the truth. So…,” he leaned back in his chair, gaze slicing into her skin. “Either you will cooperate, or we will be together for a very, very long time.”

Amelia’s head hurt. It was practically throbbing, radiating upward, from the base of her skull. Her shoulder blades were stiff, back in knots, jaw tenses. She was white-knuckling the arms of her chair to keep from shaking by the time the major offered her lunch. She couldn’t believe—understand it. He knew she was an American. And he knew she knew - and he used that to his advantage, stubbornly sticking to English, that betrayed him only with the slightest of an accent. He must’ve learned in the States.

But how could he have known so much? Everything, even? It wasn’t fair—wasn’t fair that she was alive and uselessly trying to mend her errors when Francis was on the run and Arthur and Peter were gone. If they had just killed her too…

Beilschmidt picked up her French identification papers, shuffling them—but only out of formality, it seemed, as a way to frighten her. “Where did you find these papers, mademoiselle? They’re very realistic; they might’ve had me fooled, if I didn’t know any better.”

Amelia wetted her lips. “What do you mean?”

“They’re forged, mademoiselle.”

Amelia scrunched up her nose. “How dare—”

“Please, mademoiselle, you’re a wonderful actress, but I don’t have time for your shenanigans.”

The room went silence. Amelia could hear leaves rustling from just beyond the mansion’s walls.

Freedom.

“From a contact. I don’t know his name,” she heard herself say.

Beilschmidt didn’t hesitate to change the subject. “Did Arthur Kirkland secure you a position at La Maison d’Izieu?”

Amelia swallowed uncomfortably at the mention of her fiancé. “I -- they needed another teacher. They were kind enough to...”

“Who at La Maison is involved with the Résistance?”

Amelia wrung her hands. “How should I know that, sir? I was there once, for only a few short hours—I was told they needed a teacher and were kind enough to offer me the position. That’s all.”

Beilschmidt’s expression twisted slightly. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together in front of him, his eyes trained on her face. She tipped her chin upwards.

“Tell me about Arthur Kirkland.”

Amelia felt her chin dip back downward and her eyebrows crease into a glare. She looked away, throat burning.

“Was he the ‘friend’ you mentioned?”

“What does it matter to you?” Her voice came out strangely thick, words strangled.

She didn't bother to look to him when he spoke. “It is my turn to ask questions. You will answer, please. What was your relationship with Arthur—”

“He’s dead. It’s useless to you.” A knife twisted in her gut at those words.

The major’s expression was almost sympathetic when she glanced over to him. “Mademoiselle, I’m terribly sorry—”

  
Her head snapped back, eyes flashing. Her breathe shook. “How can you possibly say that?” She gestured to the photograph on his desk. “If your wife was murdered and the killer told you—told you…” She looked down at her hands, suddenly drained. “Well, how would you feel?”

She was a dead woman for sure, after an outburst like that. But death didn’t seem so awful all of the sudden.

For a moment, everything was quiet. Amelia counted Beilschmidt’s measured breathes. Hot tears pooled in her vision. And then when the major finally spoke, his voice was everything Amelia wasn’t.

“You are right . . . However, as hard as this may be for you to believe, I am sorry for your loss.” Amelia stared numbly back at him, tears trailing down her face. In his eyes, there was a flicker of something like compassion -- empathy, even. Her ears burned as she looked away.

“I loved him,” she whispered.

“That will be all for this morning.” Without another word, he was gone. Amelia buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

In the late afternoon the guards again escorted Amelia from her cell. They didn’t go the the major’s office this time. She supposed his civility had run out with her recent outburst. She was left in a very large, empty room that must’ve been the parlour at one time. A cheerless, minimalist room, all dingry and dark, with nothing to distract herself with had replaced it’s once-splendour. The orange light that filtered in through the heavy, mouth-bitten drapery casted long shadows against the cold marble floor, barely illuminated the small wooden table and two chair which stood in the centre of the room.

The major nodded at her in acknowledgement as he left the wall he’d been leaning against and stood next to the table, hand on the back of a chair.

Amelia placed a hand on her chest in attempt to still her breathing as she sat across from where the major still stood. She kept her eyes trained directly ahead of her.

Beilschmidt waved the guards away and smiled at her. “I hope you don’t mind, Miss Jones, but I must ask you more questions about your finacé.”

Amelia frowned. She’d never told him that. Still, she tried to seem unfazed. “I’d rather not.”

Another one of those chaste, sympathetic smiles. “Where did you meet?”

“University.”

Just give him as little as you can.

“In Paris?”

Amelia looked away. “No.”

“I know you were born here and lived in Paris until you were five in your mother’s family home.”

She never told him that either. “An American one.”

Beilschmidt leaned forward, hands flat on the table. “He was with you in America?”

“He was a student teacher. I was in his class.”

“Over three years ago. Almost four.”

“And what did he teach?”

“French.”

“But you learned French in Paris, did you not? What sense does that makes?”

Amelia almost smirked; he’d thought he found a hole in her story.

“Arthur taught everything French -- language, history, literature.” She flicked a stray out of her face. “I met him in literature.”

Beilschmidt gave her a sardonic smile. “French literature, then?”

“I actually majored in business and marking, with a minor in political science and economics. My father had always told me I was an overachiever.” She pursed her lips, leaning back in her chair. “But you already knew that.”

“And so . . . ?”

“French was for fun.”

Beilschmidt nodded. “Which university did you attend?”

“A private on in New England.”

“What university?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“The university, Amelia.”

“Tufts University—in Massachusetts.” She allowed herself a bit of pride to seep into her words.

Major Beilschmidt sat in his chair, leaning back. He studied her silently for a moment. It appeared she’d given him more information than she intended to with her answers. As she dissolved under his scrutinising face, she wondered when the torture would begin.

“Why did your family move to the United States?”

  
Amelia shrugged. “My parents decided—I was too young to be apart of the decision.”

“And how did you feel, abandoning your country?”

Again, Amelia shrugged. “I love France, sir. I have many happy memories of Paris and my home. But I’m an American—I haven’t really known any other way.”

“And where are you parents now?”

“My father is in Boston—our home. My mother’s been dead almost three years.”

His gaze was penetrating. “These questions make you uncomfortable.”

“No, sir.” _You make me uncomfortable._

“Then what does?” He grinned.

“Nothing, sir. You must be imagining things.”

He chuckled, but there was nothing curel about it. As if they were friends going out for coffee. “Has anyone ever told you how charming you are?

She recalled their first meeting at the café. “Once or twice.”

He smirked. “Tell me about Francis Bonnefoy.”

Amelia didn’t even miss a beat. “Who?”

  
_Just play the game._

Beilschmidt gave her a thin, amused sort of smile. “ You are persistent, Amelia. Stubborn…”

Amelia raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been told that too.”

“I’m sure you have.” He tapped his finger on the table. “His codename is Bruno. Does that ring any bells?”

Okay. So he knew that too.

“We’re told little about each other. Why would I be trusted with his real name?”

He studied her carefully and she forced herself to keep his gaze, no matter how badly her hands shook. FInally, he spoke and Amelia listening, ignoring the heart in her throat.

“He made a very valiant effort to escape this morning—even I was impressed. But my men are well-trained…”

His expression was unreadable

An image of blood-stained snow and waxy skin and glassy eyes forced it way into her thoughts. He couldn’t be caught—she understood what that meant. And she knew from the silence of the basement that they had take only one prisoner.

“There was nothing left.”

“What is there to tell? He was Arthur’s best friend.”

“Tell me about his work.”

“Why would he confide in me? I’m no one to him.”

“Amelia held his gaze. “I don’t think you understand, sir, with all do respect. You won’t get anything from useful from me.”

She was dead either way. Why not go down fighting? Make Arthur proud?

His expression went chilly. “With all due respect, Amelia Jones, you don’t understand, either. If I want something from a prisoner, I will get it.”

Amelia felt something run down her spine—fear, most likely—but she said nothing. He didn’t deserve a response.

Major Beilschmidt sighed. “Tomorrow, things will be different, mademoiselle. Tomorrow, there will be a gestapo officer to oversee your interrogation. If you don’t cooperate, I’m afraid you’ll be out of my hands.” He walked towards the door, eyes still on her. “You refuse to cooperate, and I am concerned for you safety.” He opened the door and gestured to the guards in the hall. “I will see you tomorrow, mademoiselle. It is late. Try to get some sleep. And..” He sighed. “Try to be a little more reasonable tomorrow.”

**Amelia was still asleep when they came for her.** They had dragged her from her cot and practically threw her into the ground. The heels of her hands burned as she struggled to stand, suddenly aleert as she remembered where she was. They unceremoniously hauled her into stand position and practically dragged her up the stairs.

Cheery morning light streamed through the windows as she entered the first floor of the chateau. This sitme they escorted her past the second floor and to the attic, where she was ushered inside a room closed off with a heavy wooden door. It echoed when they slammed it shut behind her.

It took a moment for her vision to become clear in the floom. The air was alive with dust particles that tickled her nose and throat, made her eyes water. She stood with her back against the door, facing the window—the only source of light that she could see. Cobwebs thick with dust and dead flies swayed gently in a draft that she could thankfully not feel.

Two men stood at the centre of the room.

Amelia immediately recognised the major, with his broad shoulders and strong stance. The smaller man beside him stood still as a statue, his face indiscernible in the dim backlighting.

A rickety wooden table and a straight backed chair creaked behind them. Beilschmidt placed one hand on the back of the chair. “Mademoiselle, have a seat, please.”

“I would prefer to stand, thank you.”

Her eyes were locked on the shorter man, who had not moved for spoken. The major firmly gripped her elbow. “I insist, Amelia. Sit.” Something about the grip on her arm, the harsh yet pleading tone of voice, terrified her, and she allowed herself to be lead to the chair. She squinted her eyes to better make out the smaller man now that she was closer.

He wore the dark uniform of the Gestapo, immaculately tailored to his every rigid line, with every button buttoned and every crease perfect. His cap rested precariously under one sinewy arm. However, despite all of this, he couldn’t have been too much taller than Amelia herself—not that it lessened her fear of him by any measurable amount. He defended his petit frame with an arrogant lift of his sharp chin and nose, and his thin lips were pressed into a severe, uncompromising line. His cheekbones jutted prominently, sharp as blade; with a hard, cold gaze, his eyes held a terror all of their own.

A smirk played on the corners of his lips and she flinched away without thinking.

Beilschmidt’s voice came from somewhere beside her. “Amelia, this is a captain from the Gestapo. He is here to observe our session and for his benefit we will speak only in French. Answer carefully and be as accurate as you can.”

He gestured to three photographs on the table, face up, glossy and new. Her heart hammered painfully against her sternum. She tried her best to ignore the captain’s leer. “You have met up with the Résistance, I am sure, to update them with the SOE’s activities. We need your assistance to identify these men in our photographs here.”

Amelia stared dispassionately at the photograph of Francis Bonnefoy, a young man draped gracefully on his arm. His face was turned in his companion’s direction, but the alertness of his posture was evident, even through the lens of a camera. Amelia felt a weight come off her chest. They were still trying to identify Francis, which meant that they hadn’t caught him.

And, all the more important, that he was still alive.

“Who are the men in these photographs?”

She was playing a dangerous game. If Francis had truly already escaped -- and, God, how she hoped he had -- then it was possible the major had not gotten a good look at him. Or maybe he had, and already knew which one was Francis, and was just testing her willingness to cooperate with him. But, if Francis’s identity still remain anonymous, she didn’t want to be the one to reveal it.

She looked up at her interrogator, searched his face, his eyes, to discern what he already knew. Major Beilschmidt returned her gaze with a hooded expression.

She took a deep breath. “As I told you yesterday, sir, I was not introduced to anyone —they didn’t have the time to convene before…”

“I find that hard to believe, considering he was Arthur’s close friend.”

Amelia said nothing.

“Which one of these photographs is Francis Bonnefoy?”

“Arthur had not told me everything, or introduced me to everyone …” She wrung her hands nervously, pleading with Beilschmidt to believe her.

“You deliberately avoided my question, Amelia.”

Amelia paused, unable to breathe. She glanced up at the major and then at the man behind him. He’d begun to pace, eyes flashing, watching her intently -- like the devil himself.

“I’m sorry, Major Beilschmidt…” She felt her heart beating loudly, traitorously, and she looked back at the major. She swallowed her fear and spoke, her voice barely over a whisper, “I cannot answer you question.”

A sharp, staccato of German exploded from the captain. Suddenly, it felt like a handful of her hair was being ripped from her head and she screamed as the walls around her blurred and the edge of the table ran up towards her. Pain blossomed from her forehead, her world went sideways, her vision went white.

She crumpled to the ground like paper, ears screaming, and her shoulder crunched against the rough wooden floor, a nail barely missing her neck. Before her world went black, she heard a sharp exclamation from Beilschmidt, followed by a quick retort from the captain.

Someone was knocking incessantly at the door and Amelia rushed to open it for Arthur, heart soaring, all the words she never thought she’d be able to say like honey on her tongue. She swung open the door, but the knocking continued, and it wasn’t Arthur.

The captain with the devil’s eyes stared at her like a starved lion seizing up a hunk of meat. She felt naked even though she was covered from neck to wrist to ankle.

“Identify the men in the photographs.”

Amelia opened her eyes. Someone had returned her to her chair. The major stood close to her side, arms folded as he stared intently over her shoulder. Amelia could feel his warmth radiating off him. She knew she must have had a concussion when she felt an almost...protectiveness… in his stance. In front of her, the captain lounge against the table, waiting for an answer. The knocking continued. Amelia felt something sticky and warm run down her neck -- she wiped it away.

_Blood_.

The captain leaned in close, his voice devoid of any emotion—an iced over corpse. “Identify these men.”

Amelia trembled. “I do not recognise them, sir.”

Suddenly, her jaw is in the captain’s grip -- his fingers ground into the soft skin at the side of her throat and she began feeling weightless in the head. “You are so beautiful, even as an American woman. I can change that easily—make no mistake.” He wrenched her jaw upwards, until she had no other choice but to meet his gaze. His voice was a hiss against her ear. “You are incredibly naive, Miss Jones, if you think you’ll be safe again after this. I promise you—next time, you will not recover.”

He released her and Amelia’s hand went protectively to her throat. There would be bruises; she could practically feel them forming.

Major Beilschmidt’s voice was firm. “Answer him, Amelia.”

Amelia’s head spun, a bile in her throat, her arms rough as sandpaper, her head pounding like an oncoming train. She swallowed uncomfortably around the dryness of her throat and the beating pain. Her voice was a ghost. “My answer could kill Francis—and others . . . the entire Résistance…”

“And not answering will cost yours.” His smile was a scythe.

  
Amelia couldn’t stop herself. She really couldn’t.

The captain shrieked something in German as he recoiled to wipe off her saliva. Beilschmidt’s expression was unreadable.

The captain straightened, now looking to the major. “Offensichtlich wird sanfte Überredung uns mit dieser Schlampe nicht weiterbringen.”

Amelia gave Beilschmidt a helpless look -- he paid her no mind.

The major moved in front of Amelia, his stance too solid to be that of talking to a … coworker—Amelia cringed at her own wording.

“Deine Definition von Sanftheit amüsiert mich.”

  
“Fragst du meine Methoden, Beilschmidt? Du weißt, dass du nicht in der Lage bist, in Frage zu stellen, was ich tue.”

The major answered sharply, much too quickly for Amelia to catch, before knocking sharply on the attic door. The captain continued with his rapid, seething German as the guards half carried, half dragged Amelia back to her cell.


	7. Jean Moulin died in Lyon

Amelia’s sleep that night was … not restful, to say the least. Full of nightmarish images and shocks of pain that only served to partially wake her. She tried to ignore the sticky, warm substance pooling around her face.

Suddenly, her dream changed. She was with Arthur, somewhere -- the landscape around her was hazy and strange, with colours both too bright and too desaturated to really be anything -- in his arms. His eyes were vibrant, smile crooked, hair a mess on top of his head. She ran a hand through his hair and when she pulled them away -- red. Red all over them. She screamed, but his lock on her was solid. “I know him.”

Amelia woke up panting to a dark and cold cell. No windows to shed moonlight on her. She heard a rat squeaking across the floor as she drifted back out of consciousness.

This time it was her mother’s voice. Lilliane Jones stood on the step of their tiny villa in Paris, and Amelia ran in past the gate, and held out her arms. Just as their fingertips brushed, Lilliane disappeared with a soft, “Trust him.”

In an instant, the villa, the warmth of the Parisian sun, and that carefree, childlike air was gone, and was replaced by a whirlwind of whispered threats in a strange, thick darkness that held her frozen in place, no matter how hard she struggled against it. The clatter of a train coming towards her. She could only see the headlights moving towards her. Terrified, she covered her face, crying out for Arthur, her mother -- anyone. But she could still see the light, hear the train, feel the air she she braced herself for an impact that she would not survive.

She opened her eyes back to reality to see a powerful light shining on her face and two figures looming over her behind it. Beyond them, her cell door was open. 

Cold fingers pressed against the area around her wound. “Careful -- hold still, please.” She hardly understood the man’s French through his thick accent. “You will want you to hold still, even if it will hurt.”

The fingers were replaced with a rough cloth, and the pungent scent of rubbing alcohol, invaded her nostrils. Amelia grit her teeth, hissing through gnashed teeth.

Another voice hit her ears. “Make sure she’s stabalised. She needs to be healthy enough for interrogation.” Major Beilschmidt.

Fingers continued to busy themselves around her head. “I have seen worse. I will do my best.”

Amelia closed her eyes and tried not to flinch or shimper. Throbbing continued in waves down her neck and radiating through the rest of her skull. “I need to give morphine, mademoiselle. Please be still.” Amelia felt the pinch in her arm and the pressure as the doctor released the painkillers into her vein. The doctor set the needle to the side. 

“Major…” Her voice was soft, dry.

“Yes, mademoiselle?” Beilschmidt leaned in closer. 

Her lips were chapped. “You never hit me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You interrogated me for two days -- you didn’t even seem to consider it.”

The major was blunt, his tone matter-of-fact. “How much did you tell Dresdner while on the floor?”

“Dresdner?”

“Yes.”

It must have been the morphine when Amelia said, “Thank you, major.”

The major said nothing and Amelia wondered what she’d said wrong.

“Do you mind if I ask . . . what’s goin’ to happen to me?”

“Captain Dresdner has received orders from his superiors. He will be taking to you to Gestapo headquarters tomorrow -- well, this afternoon. You will more than likely finish your interrogation in Lyon.”

Amelia’s throat constricted. Suddenly everything felt colder, like she was encased in ice. Like Jean Moulin -- and he’s dead now. And Amelia was the farthest thing from Jean Moulin. “But I’ve told you everything I know!” She sounded breathless, and her voice cracked on ‘know.’

“Miss Jones.” His voice was stern, firm. But not cruel. “I am not here to interrogate you. That’s out of my hands. You’re no longer my jurisdiction.”

“Don’t you believe anything I’ve told you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. You are no longer my concern.”

Amelia whimpered despite herself, suddenly a cornered animal -- and she began to struggle to stand up. Whatever her plan was, she had no idea. But she could imagine herself lunging past the men, through the open door. Better shot now rather than beat to death later.

But the morphine’s effects were already taking place, robbing her of the ability to carry her own weight. 

Beilschmidt caught her before she even got in a sitting position.

She pushed weakly against his grip, but even that much exertion had already exhausted her of any strength she may have had. He pinned her onto the mattress. “Die Fesseln, Herr Ärzt.”

Amelia forced her body to relax as the restraints tightened around her arms. The major released her before stepping back into his original place.

“Fahre mit die Durchsicht fort.”

The doctor turned Amelia’s face to the wall and continued to probe her wound. “Erhebliche Prellungen am Schädel und Kiefer. Einige kleinere, weniger schwere Blutergüsse an ihrem Hals. Ein Schnitt in der Haut, etwa einen Zentimeter lang.”

Amelia tried to keep her jaw from moving too much. “What did he say?”

Neither of them seemed to notice.

“Sie wird Stiche benötigen, wenn sie richtig heilen soll.” 

“Stitches it is then.” 

Amelia strained her mind to think of the little German vocabulary she knew as the doctor spoke again, in a quiet, nervous tone. Low and concerned. Ominous in the dampness of the cell, against the tightness of her restraints.  
“Aber wenn man bedenkt, wohin sie geht, ist es vielleicht egal.”

“Give her stitches. Ich möchte, dass sie in perfektem Zustand ist, bevor sie geht.” His voice was more forceful than she’d ever heard from him -- even when he was interrogating her. 

She tried again. “Major, what’s going on?”

The doctor spoke again before Beilschmidt had time to answer -- if he planned on answering at all. “Sollten wir sie nach oben bringen? Ich habe meine Vorräte, aber die Beleuchtung …”

It was official -- Amelia hated German. All of its harshness and edges. No fluidity, no grace like French. No practicality like English.

“No. Here -- in this room.” He repeated the command in German -- or, at least, Amelia assumed that’s what he’d done.

Her hands were beginning to go numb and blood roared in her ears as the doctor spoke again. Hesitant, in protest. Amelia wished she could ask them to switch back to French, but her mouth felt syrupy and her mind buzzed. 

“Die Beleuchtung ist unzureichend.”

The major gestured toward the torch. “This will have to do.”

The doctor said something, defeated, as he bent past the bulk of an over satisfied paunch to rummage through his supplies. In the torch’s harsh glow Amelia watched the shadows hands -- like a spider spinning a web -- move delicately next to her head. She closed her tightly once she saw the size of the needle.

For several minutes she grit her teeth each time she felt the sting of the needle and the indescribable sensation of razor wire passing through her flesh.

The doctor tied off the last stitch and cut the gut close to her scalp. “Keep it clean. Do not get it wet.”

He covered the stitches with fresh gauze and taped the bandage securely over it before cleaning up the rest of his supplies. The major gestured towards the door and the doctor swiftly left the room, shutting the door gently behind him.

His words were low and quick as he undid her restraints. “Cooperate with Captain Dresdner and the rest of them. You have more control over your future than you think.”

He unclasped the final buckle on the second restraint and Amelia brought her hands to her chest, attempting to rub the feeling back into them.

“If you talk, they will listen. If you don’t…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. “Are you listening to me, Amelia?”

“Why are you telling me this?” She winced as the stitches pulled at her skin when she turned to face the major -- her captor. Former captor. Whatever he was. “I’m not your problem anymore, remember?”

“You could survive.”

“I still don’t see why you should care about whether I live or not.”

“You’re right. But I’m sure your father does.” He gave her a pointed look. “And maybe you’ll be able to return to him if you’re intelligent enough to do as I say.”

Amelia stared up at the ceiling. There was something about his eyes -- that sympathy that had to be feigned -- that unnerved her. “Why d’you care how my father feels?”

“Have you ever considered that maybe I am a father?”

Amelia almost gave herself whiplash with how fast she sat up to look at him. 

“...I had not,” she was finally able to sputter out through her burning cheeks and confused thoughts.

What must it be like to be the child of a Nazi officer?  
She shuddered inwardly at the idea.

The officer in question simply smiled at her -- a sympathetic one. Now that she thought about it -- it was rather fatherly. A lot of the facial expressions he pulled, come to think of it, could be considered very much those of a concerned father. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? It’s real coffee -- not that ersatz stuff.”

Amelia shook her head, gently lowering herself back onto the lumpy, cold mattress. “I don’t want it, but thanks anyway, I guess.”

This must be a dream too. She definitely was not having a normal, casual, mundane -- friendly, even -- conversation with her captor. The man who killed Arthur. 

“This might be your last chance in a long time.”

“I don’t drink coffee -- I don’t like it -- but, again, thanks anyway. Major Beilschmidt.”

“You are unique, Amelia Jones.”

For some reason, Amelia felt her cheeks turn pink. “Major…”  
Beilschmidt stopped. He did not move, and she felt his eyes on her face.

“You have … kindness in you, Major Beilschmidt.”

He hesitated, and opened his mouth, as if to speak. But, instead, he shook his head, as if she was being childish, and left the room.

The snow was blinding in all of its white glory as Amelia exited the chateau -- so much for sunlight, after so long in that dank, dark cell.

The guards walked with her down the stone steps and into the large expanse of the courtyard and a waiting Renault. She still wore the same bloody clothes from the morning of her capture -- reminders she did not need that day. Not at all. It would be forever tattooed in her memories.

Her thin boots did nothing to stop the cold, as before, and her toes were already numb. Dried blood made her hair on the left side lay strangely flat. 

She looked like a mess. That much was obvious.

She settled into the leather seat in the back of Captain Dresdner’s car, sandwiched between her guards -- she’d never been so close in proximity to them. Never noticed they had to be at least five years younger than herself.  
Her stomach twisted. They really did start the indoctrination young, didn’t they?

She glanced up at the window’s of the mansion -- barely visible through the snow -- and saw no one. No sign of the major.

The captain sat in the front passenger seat, his face expressionless, gaze chilly. “Shall I unlock you?”

“I’m rather comfortable as is, thank you very much.”

She was beginning to really regret spitting on him.

The Renault pulled away from the chateau. Amelia watched as it faded out of sight, heart in her stomach and pounding at a painfully fast speed. The tires crunched over the snow. This was it -- the end of Amelia Jones.

She shuddered, only partially from the cold.

Dresdner twisted back towards her in his seat, a sharp grin dimpling his cheeks and creasing the skin around his eyes. He waved the key to her handcuffs just inches from her nose, right at eye level. 

“On second thought, I better not. You might try to escape.”

Dresdner grabbed the chain between her wrists and jerked her closer when she did not respond. Her mouth twisted in disgust, with his face so close to her own. But she was his prisoner -- she had no right to request privacy or space. 

“How about a compromise? I will unlock one of your wrists. Will that be agreeable?” He wetted his lips, like a predator who’d finally cornered his prey. “I want this to be an agreeable trip, don’t you?”

Amelia nodded.

Dresdner freed her right hand, and then gripped her left to haul her several inches upwards on her seat, and locked the free end of the cuff on the rod bolted to the roof of the car.  
She was caught halfway between her feet. SHe couldn’t sit, even with her arm all the way outstretched, nor could she straightened her legs all the way. She tried to keep the discomfort off her face, tried to keep her legs from shaking.

“There now, Miss Jones, isn’t this much more agreeable?” the captain relaxed in his seat, chuckling mirthlessly. “Our trip would normally take two hours, but in this weather? We’ll be lucky to be there by nightfall. Please make yourself comfortable and enjoy the ride.”

Amelia wasn’t stupid. She knew there was no sweet-talking her way out of this. That her discomfort -- any sign of protest -- would only fan the flames, only inflate Dresdner’s ego further. 

She met his gaze in the rearview mirror, determined to appear strong, even through the dark smears and redness in her eyes. Even as she thought about how much better it would have been if she had died with Arthur. Or if she had escaped with Francis.

Or if she had never left Grendon.

Never left home.

“I see the good major patched you up.” Dresdner smirked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His eyes gleamed. “I wonder how many times I can strike that spot before I break those pretty little stitches of yours with a wooden club, don’t you?”

Amelia forced her chip to tip upward. She could keep her dignity in tact during the drive, at least. “You disgust me.”

“It’s funny, mademoiselle -- I think the same of you.”

Amelia’s legs began to shake in their unnatural position, despite her best efforts. 

Now, Amelia was not dainty. She was not delicate. She did sports with her friends all through her school years, went hiking and biking whenever she could, and went through an, albeit brief, yet effective training to join the USWC. The burning in her thighs was not an unfamiliar feelings to her. As a child -- when she was little more than a boy in girl’s clothing -- she and her friends would sit against the wall, backs pressed flush against the maroon brick of her elementary school, until their legs shook with the effort to keep them up.

But this was no game -- there was no easy way out. And the thought of hanging from her wrist for hours was … so much more than she could take.

Her lips moved in a silent, muddled prayer.

“Praying, Jones?” Dresdner seemed mesmerised by the slight movement of her lips. “Good idea. You’ll be doing a lot of that.”

Major Ludwig Beilschmidt’s fingers brushed against the glass between him and the photograph of his wife. He tried his best to ignore the sound of the car pulling out of the courtyard.

Her smile seemed impossible in such a place, such a time, but it was as if the sky had shed it’s drab grey clouds and sunlight now flooded into his office.

Ludwig placed the photograph on his desk, back in its proper place. He leaned back against his chair, tucking his hands at the back of his head, eyes tracing patterns in the ceiling.

It was like he could finally have space to breathe, with that idiot of a Gestapo captain gone. WIth him no longer looming over his shoulder, watching his every move, it was like he was free from a decade of imprisonment and he could feel the rain on his skin again. Dresdner had done exactly as Ludwig expected: he had used his position as a part of the Gestapo and the safety of his family as leverage. The major would turn the prisoner over peacefully to the Gestapo, or his family would never be seen again, hidden deep in the labour camps of Germany.

Of course Ludwig would comply -- he had no other choice. Dresdner made sure of that, as he always seemed to do.  
The American would be moved to headquarters in Lyon. On one condition: the interrogation techniques for which Dresdner was infamous not to be utilised on Amelia Jones until she was out of his jurisdiction.

He hated that.

Hated the look of deep fear in her wide blue eyes, the look she gave him when he told to comply with the Gestapo. Hated the bruises that covered her neck -- hated the thought of her covered in those bruises, and worse, beaten until she was no more than a trembling, whimpering animal -- no longer a human. Trapped in her own mind. Begging, pleading for mercy that Dresdner would be too cruel, too sadistic, too monstrous… 

He shook his head sharply.

Best not to think of it.

She was no longer his concern, after all.

There was a knock on his door. Ludwig straightened himself in his chair, adjusting his uniform. “You’re early.”

The man who had entered (without Ludwig’s permission, let it be known) shut the door behind him and leaned against the frame. “We found a shortcut.” He took a drag of the cigarette that dangled between his fingers.

Gilbert Laurinaitis was a man Ludwig would never understand, despite having lived with him most of his life, and was not the sort one would assume to associate with Ludwig Beilschmidt based on their appearances alone. 

He was a shorter man, with the sort of frame that could easily be hidden behind Ludwig’s broad one, and his head only just brushed Ludwig’s chin, even though he was about eight years older than him. But he doubted most people noticed that about him -- not with the sharpness of his cheekbones, the intensity of his glare, the brutality of his scars that marked a map all across his body, and the way his very presence seemed to command respect. Not with the practised smirk of unimpressed boredom and the way he seemed to take up more space than he actually did. Certainly not when he gave you his trademark smirk before he pulled the trigger and you were gone.

Okay, maybe he was a sociopath. But he was Ludwig’s sociopath.

And, sadistic he may be, he’s heaps better than Dresdner.

The corner of his lips twitched as he took in Ludwig’s haggard expression. “You look like you’ve just been ordered to the eastern front.”

Ludwig grinned faintly. “You know why you’re here.”

“What? You don’t think we can … ” Gilbert gestured vaguely with his cigarette as boots thunked down the hall past them. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You three have my utmost confidence -- as always.”

“Good. You’d be an idiot not to have confidence in us. Mainly me, though.”

Ludwig rolled his eyes. “You’re very childish for a lieutenant -- and for a decorated war hero for that matter. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I believe I may have heard that before.” Gilbert’s expression softened somewhat -- and, as usual, Ludwig couldn’t get over how fatherly he looked when he allowed himself to relax a little bit, and Ludwig could see past the scars that marred the features of the man he’d once been. “You’re worried about your family.”

“I’m always worried about my family.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just wondering if this American will be worth it... that, you know, I should … ” Ludwig watched the snow fall.

Gilbert pushed himself off the doorframe, tapping out the ashes from his cigarette. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out. We’ve been -- ”

“I’m not, Gilbert. Don’t worry.”

“You’re too cautious. It’s a wonder you ever do anything with your life.”

“And you’re too reckless -- it’s a wonder you’re not dead.”

“I take calculated risks. There’s a difference.”

“Regardless, Gilbert, this is a … well, it could end badly.”

“I’m well aware.”

“You could be imprisoned or killed.”

“I know that. I’m not scared. They hate me, you know; it’s a wonder I haven’t been imprisoned already.” Gilbert shrugged. Ludwig watched as his friend took another long drag of his cigarette, entirely too relaxed for the situation at hand. “You should come with us -- it’d be like old times.”

“Wish I could.” Ludwig retrieved a hat from his desk and began to make his way to the exit. “But I have a small errand to run that will take a few days to complete.”

“Doesn’t sound small,” Gilbert mumbled, rummaging around in his pockets for a new cigarette and his lighter. 

“Besides, Dresdner would recognise me. Unfortunately, he has yet to meet you and the others.”

Gilbert flicked the stuff of his cigarette into an empty mug on Ludwig’s desk before lighting another. “I hope we can rectify that tonight.”

“As do I, Gilbert, as do I.” He smiled slightly. “I’ll join you in St. Étienne. Is your team -- ”

“Ready to move, sir.” Gilbert gave him a mock salute.

“What will you tell them?”

“I’ve told Tolys everything -- don’t give me that look, you know he won’t tell anyone -- and as for Tino,” (Gilbert shrugged, unconcerned), “Dresdner can’t be trusted; he’s planning to kill the prisoner and all the valuable information she has will die with her. For the good of the Fatherland, it is imperative that she does not reach Lyon.”

Ludwig nodded. “Fair enough.”

“And as for the good captain?” Gilbert’s eyes glinted.

Ludwig hesitated. It would all be so much easier if they could just eliminate the vile man as soon as possible, yet … well, it was necessary for him to testify that it was maquisards who kidnapped Amelia Jones, vital that he could share such a story with Section Four. “No killing.”

“Not even a little bit?” He sounded a bit put out.

“We need him to testify at Lyon.” Ludwig sighed. “Feel free to terrorise him as much as you wish as long as he remains alive.”

“Understood.”

“I should be able to join you by the end of the week. Give the American no false hope of freedom. Watch her closely until you reach your destination. I -- ”

“Understood. But, Ludwig…”

“Yes?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Ludwig hesitated. “I wish I knew.”

It was a far, far simpler answer.


	8. not quite maquisards

Amelia’s eyes stung, completely dry, as she stared ahead of her, numb to her surroundings as the Renault slowed at a checkpoint northwest of Belley. Snow continued to swirl around a dormant and frozen landscape on either side of the road like a vortex, and when the driver cranked down the window to talk to the duo of young guards who seemed just as miserable as she in the cold, a burst of freezing air and snow surged inside the car. Amelia shivered.

“Papiere, bitte.” The man at the driver’s window stared at Amelia from beneath his fur cap. She looked away from him. She didn’t need his pity -- not when he wasn’t going to do something about it.

Amelia’s arm turned more to sandpaper with every second the window stayed open. She ground her teeth together. She doubted the checkpoint was even necessary -- just another German strategy in wasting everybody’s time. 

Dresdner looked into the rearview mirror to smirk at her, before raising an eyebrow in confusion. Amelia allowed herself a glance over her shoulder, scanning the landscape for the source of his confusion.

Another vehicle, a navy Citroen, pulled up behind them and waited patiently, its powerful engine idling and sending steady clouds of exhaust into the evening air. They must’ve been pretty desperate to leave Belley, to drive in this sort of weather.

She really wished she were with them. Anything was better than this torture.

Finally, the soldier handed the papers back to the driver, and waved them off, throwing Amelia one last empathetic look. 

Amelia continued her staring contest with the windshield, daring herself to lose.

Her legs shook and her thighs felt like they’d been filled with hot coals. Her cuffed hand had long since lost feelings and the metal dug deep into her skin.

It would only get worse from then.

Amelia wasn’t naive. She knew if she couldn’t survive this, she’d be spilling her guts by midnight -- and she would not allow herself that humiliation.

She’d always thought of herself as strong and courageous. She’d daydreamed of being a hero one day.

Well, here was her chance. Now she had to prove it.

As the miles crawled by, Amelia discovered a way to relieve herself of some of the nauseating pain in her muscles. She simply shifted back and forth from one foot to another, keeping her movements with the car, as if she was being jostled by the road. And -- this was a miracle all on its own -- Dresdner seemed somewhat impressed by her stamina, however reluctantly.

The corner of her mouth quirked up in a smirk. Maybe Major Beilschmidt was right. Maybe she’d have a chance (albeit, a slim one) of survival after all.

It was dusk when the Citroen from before pulled up behind them, so closer Amelia could almost make out the drivers. But there was no patience this time” the driver wasted no time with violently honking his horn and them. It swerved back and forth behind them on the dangerously icy road, trying without luck to find a way to pass the Renault.

Dresdner half-muttered in the thickness of sleep. “Was denken sie, dass sie tun?”

“Scheint, sie wollen vorbeigehen, mein Herr.” The driver looked through the mirror questioningly, as if waiting for orders.

“Fahre weiter. Sie können warten, bis sie an der Reihe sind.” Dresdner turned his back disdainfully on the swerving car and settled comfortably into his seat.. He glanced at Amelia through the rearview mirror before he dismissed the sight of her.

He’s bored. I’m not giving in fast enough for him. She ground her teeth harder. She wouldn’t give in. She simply refused. 

Behind them, the owner of the Citroen rolled down his window and yelled blasphemies into the howling wind. Dresdner’s driver watched the spectacle anxiously through his mirror.

“Herr Kommandant…”

“Er ist betrunken. Fortfahren.”

It was in that moment of uncomfortable silence that the Citroen accelerated and drove towards them in a very fast, very sober straight line, crunching against the fender of the Renault.

The impact threw Amelia towards the rear window but the handcuffs kept her in place, biting viciously into her wrist. Almost immediately, blood began seeping down her arm, hot and sticky, and drops fell far too quickly for her liking onto the leather next to her. Too bright -- much too bright.

Dresdner had apparently been thrown to the side of his seat -- now he was yelling furiously at his guards, who held the side of their head in pain.

Suddenly the car swerved wildly to the right and plowed headfirst into a snowbank. There was a scream and Amelia realised it was her own as the watched more ruby droplets run down the leather of the seat.

Despite the lightheadedness that came with watching herself bleed out, Amelia attempted to pay attention to the strange chaos around her -- the driver, moaning as he held his jaw. Dresdner, who was crumpled into a heap on his seat, groaning softly; tone guard had been found through the windshield and the other had cracked his head on the driver’s seat, and now lay on the floor, apparently unconscious.

Amelia’s wrist burned from the pressure of her body as the metal hit bone. Her legs shook -- from what, she wasn’t quite sure, as she struggled for her footing, and she attempted to use the length of her arm to reach the Gestapo officer, ignoring the excruciating pain coming from her shoulder. She felt around on the man’s chest, quick to note he was still breathing, completely blind to him.

Dresdner groaned, muttering something that sounded somewhere between a command and a curse in German. Amelia flinched: if he regained consciousness and realised what she was doing …

She shook her thoughts away, forcing her hand to keep searching.

In the corner of her vision, the blue Citroen responsible for the accident skidded to a stop alongside them. Three men in civilian clothing jumped out and adhered to the car, weapons in hand hand and caps pulled low over their eyes.

Maquisards!

Amelia’s hand closed around a small key in the breast pocket of Dresdner’s uniform. She pulled it quickly from the fast-awakening captain and fumbled to unlock her wrist -- in a moment, her wrist was free, and clutched tenderly against her chest. The threw the key to the side before lunging through the door closest to the Citroen, landing painfully into the snow, where she would lay, her legs too tired to move on their own accord.

One of the attackers pulled open Dresdner’s door open so quickly Amelia swore it blurred and unceremoniously hauled his body into the snow. The small man lay there in a pitiful heap, moaning and clutching his head with both hands. The others pulled out the driver and the guards and threw them onto the ground next to Dresdner.

Amelia watched, wide-eyed, as two of the men pointed their guns at the heap of wounded flesh, expressions distorted with concentration.

Suddenly, two boots came into her vision.

“Je suis française, je suis française!” 

“Mademoiselle?” He held a snow-white hand out to Amelia, and with his help, she stood with shaky legs.

“You’re very lucky, cherie.” The pale man nodded in the direction of the Gestapo officer. “He is a murderer. You wouldn’t have survived the interrogation.”

Amelia stared at the man and he flashed her a brilliant, too-white smile. His French was flawless in flow and wording, but his accent was unmistakable.

German.

He gestured for one of his comrades -- a shorter man, with tufts of blond hair poking out from underneath his cap. In the darkness, he barely looked twenty, and once she came into his sight, he grinned at her, and his chin dimpled. 

He gently led her toward their car, face now completely smooth, aside from his friendly, almost childish grin. Amelia gratefully accepted the coat he draped around her shoulders, though it was a bit tight around her upper arms. Her left wrist still throbbed, though it seemed the bleeding had mostly stopped, and her whirlwind of a rescue had left her head spinning.

“Wait here, if you please,” the man said, opening the door for and pushing her firmly into the back seat. “We will be leaving soon.”

Behind the safety of a closed door, Amelia watched the petit man stride back to the . . . well, she supposed they the prisoners now, weren’t they?

The man who had originally helped her -- the pale one with the brutal face -- ordered the captain to stand. He nudged the struggled man with his automatic.

“Give me your coat.”

Dresdner glared up at the man and made no move to obey.

The man reversed his weapon and smashed it into the stomach of the Gestapo officer -- he crumpled like an aluminum can upon impact. “Your coat -- are you so dim-witted you’ll lose your life over a coat?” He hauled Dresdner to his feet as if he weighed nothing. “Your coat and your boots, if you please.”

Captain Bernard Dresdner slowly removed his coat and then, at his captors’ insistence, his tunic, breeches, and long, shiny boots. He stood forlornly in the snow in socks and winter long underwear, his shivering frame pitifully small and thin now that the trappings of his power had been removed. Amelia almost felt sympathy for the man, now that she was in the safety of whoever her rescuers’ were backseat. Almost.

The men bound Dresdner securely, dragging him away from the Renault, and threw him into the snow, alongside the others. 

As the other two men made their way back to the car, the pale man suddenly turned and shot a bullet into the Renault’s gas tank -- as to be expected, the vehicle, sending an intensely bright ball of flame skyward and shrapnel in all directions. The Citroen rocked violently and Amelia  
instinctively ducked, shielding her face with her good arm. 

As the three men clambered into the car, there was  
suddenly a sense of energy.

“What the hell was that for?” the third man snapped, glaring at the pale one as he slid in next to Amelia.

“Can’t have pursuit, can we?” The accusatory one didn’t seem satisfied but the one next to her seemed  
unconcerned. Instead, he tossed Dresdner’s clothing at her feet and gave her a smirk.

The third comrade took the passenger’s seat up front and the car lurched forward before he even had shut the door fully.

Up front, the men had already began changing into German uniforms -- Amelia tried to ignore how often the driver took his hands off the steering wheel to assist himself in putting on his uniform. 

Amelia studied the man next to her as he shrugged on a military jacket that he’d produced from a pack at his feet. “You’re German.”

The man nodded -- again, completely unconcerned. Wavy dust-brown hair fell into pale eyes that seemed to be just the perfect shade to make up the line between grey and blue, and she couldn’t help but notice that his nose seemed a bit too tall and sharp to be a stereotypical German. His hand was ready on his weapon as he watched the road behind them for any sign of pursuit.

The driver accelerated even faster as they found their first twist in the road, and suddenly the Gestapo car was completely out of sight. Sure, of course, the thick black smoke that billowed upwards, that Amelia was sure had already even caught the Germans’ attention was still visible -- but she suspected it would be visible for a while.  
The man watched for several minutes longer before the grip on the stock of his rifle slackened. He turned and settled comfortably in his seat, uniform shirt only half done-up, lighting a cigarette. “Lieutenant Gilbert Laurinaitis.” 

Amelia took the hand he offered and shook it like her father had taught her -- firmly, to let him know she meant business. “Amelia.”

“Nice to be of acquaintance to you, Amelia.” 

“I suppose I should say the same to you, but I won’t.”

The driver laughed. “I like her, Gil.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes, kicking the back of the driver’s seat. “Shut up, loser.”

“How very mature of you.”

Gilbert gestured to the driver. “The annoying one’s my little brother.”

“We’re twins.”

Amelia glanced between the two men. They sure didn’t look like twins. The driver was taller, thinner, with long shaggy brown hair tied at the nape of his neck with a leather thong, with a tanned face and a nice pair of green eyes. And his face was creased with laugh lines, rather than the signs of stress that came from scowling often.

“His name is Tolys, but I normally call him dumbass.”

Amelia nodded at Tolys as he swerved around a large snowback with a confidence that unnerved her.

“Also a lieutenant,” Tolys sighed. “But this son of bitch likes to leave out that part.”

Amelia pressed lips together. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here they were, rescuing her from her capture, and she was witnessing a sibling argument like the sort her friends used to have when she came to stay at their house when she was little.

Gilbert indicated to the last man in their little group. “And this one is Tino.”

Tino looked back at her and grinned, hair still ruffled from his cap and dimpled, pink cheeks. Amelia raised her eyebrow at him.

“Oh, don’t let his looks fool you,” Gilbert said in perfect answer to her thoughts. “The man has a wife and three kids back home. ‘Sides, he’s killed more men than you can count off the top of your head.”

“He’s ruthless,” Tolys agreed.

“Yeah, don’t mess with me.” He winked at her, chuckling under his breath, before turning to face the road.

Tolys gave a worried glance in the rearview mirror. “Hey, Gil, see if you can patch that wrist up for her.”

Gilbert nodded, holding out his hand -- all long-fingered and callused, with scars and bruises across the knuckles. The kind that came from constant use of brass knuckles. “Are you alright?”

Amelia nodded, reluctantly surrendering her wrist over to him. “Jus’ a bit cut up.”

“Dresdner really has it out for you, doesn’t he?”

Amelia didn’t respond. She winced when Gilbert grasped her wrist, pulling it up inches from his face to study. “Good thing we got here when we did. I don’t think you’ll need a tourniquet -- Tino, gib bitte die Bandagen zurück. Und etwas Alkohol, wenn du welchst haben, ja?”

Tino pulled a pack out of the glove box and threw it back to them. Gilbert caught it without even look. “Dankeschön.”

“Bitteschön.”

Amelia winced as he poured the alcohol directly over her cuts. “But why -- why rescue me from your own Gestapo?”  
Gilbert didn’t look up to answer her question as he rummaged through the pack. “Our job is to make you disappear.”

“You’re tellin’ me you went through all that trouble jus’ to shoot me?”

“Not as simple as that, mademoiselle.” He began tightly wrapping a rough bandage around her wrist -- probably meant to act as a splint in lieu of an actual one. “Dresdner lives by the common Gestapo philosophy that the end justifies the means.”

Amelia frowned. “What does that mean for me?”

“The Führer has some use for you. He does not want you damaged.”

Amelia shuddered. “So where are you takin’ me?”

“You’ll know soon.” He released her wrist.

Amelia returned her wrist to its place against her chest.  
“More interrogation?”

“Most likely.”

“Keep your head down, mademoiselle.”

Amelia looked away from the window, startled.

It had been an almost comfortable few hours, after the initial shock wore off. Tolys had suggested she rest during the drive and Amelia accepted his offer readily, allowing the low murmur of the men's’ conversation lull her into that strange state between awake and asleep.

In the distance Amelia could almost make out shapes in the darkness -- a small town, with a cathedral standing tall and proud in the centre and little thatched rooftops around it. She opened her mouth to ask what was going on (was this their destination?) when Gilbert’s iron-hard grip on her shoulder forced her to the floor. 

“Don’t move -- we’re passing the arms’ factory.” He threw a blanket over her and then something else -- his rifle maybe? “There’s a guard station; they’ll check inside the vehicle.”

Amelia felt the Citroen slow beneath her. She heard the cold click of a pistol being cocked. Her heartbeat accelerated: What were they planning?

“Ich würde es sicher hassen einen Landsmann zu töten,” she heard Tino mumble.

Amelia wanted to ask what they were saying -- she recognised “töten” -- to kill -- but her mouth was dry.

“Das ist nicht nötig.” Amelia winced at the rasp of Gilbert’s voice -- like a knife scraping against rock. As usual, everyone sounded better in French. “Wir hab’ uns in unser’ Uniformen verwandert, oder?”

Amelia peeked out from under the blanket just in time to see Gilbert lift his legs and cross his boots on her back. “Außerdem sind sie nur Gendarmen. Die Stéphanois haben immer die schlechteste Wache in der Nacht -- und ich bin nicht nur ihr Vorgesetzter, sondern auch unvernünftig betrunken -- ”

With that, the lieutenant popped a cork and knocked down most of the bottle without a moment's hesitation.

“Vorsichtig, Herr General—du werdst betrunken sein, wenn du fortfährst.” Tino sounded...well, concerned. Not the most reassuring time in this moment.

Gilbert waved him off (also not reassuring, Amelia was beginning to realise.) Ashes fell from his cigarette like snow. “Ich kann meinen Alkohol zurückhalten. Du weißt, dass.” 

Tolys sounded apprehensive when he spoke. “Was soll ich ihnen sagen?”

Gilbert took another swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nichts. Ich werd’ reden.”

Amelia recovered herself with the blanket, heart hammering. She already knew this wasn't going to end well—it literally couldn't end well. She felt sick to her stomach, suddenly wishing she could be back in her cell at Belley. Or at home.  
The car brightened—even through the heaviness of the blanket—as the gendarmes swept their torches through. The sound sound of Tolys winding down the window.

Gilbert let our what Amelia could only guess was a loud expletive, his voice slurred and much too high pitched. She winced. “Was bedeutet das? Passt du auf, so du dieses Licht zeigst, Idiot.” There was a shuffling and then Gilbert's heavy black boots slammed into her back, heels digging painfully into her spine. She bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood to hold back the help that bubbled up at the back of her throat.

“Entschuldigung…” Amelia cursed inwardly—more German to sit through the and interpret. She should've taken the German course the SOE has offered her, hadn't she? And she was already starting to get enough of a headache from Gilbert's strange, nails-on-chalkboard rasp as it was…

“Herr General der Panzertruppe?” She heard the gendarme quickly ‘Heil!’ in response. “Guten Abend, Sir General. Lass mich bitte deine Papiere sehen.”

Gilbert swore again, words seeming to crash into each other as he spoke. “Was denkst du sind wir? Maquisards?”

“Verzeihen Sie—es gab Berichte über französische Outlaws, die deutsche Offiziere verkörpern.” The gendarme sounded uneasy now, and Amelia could image the right expression he probably wore.

She felt Gilbert surge upward, digging his boots deeper into her back—she’d be bruised for sure, but she tried not to let that bother her. Not now. There were certainly worse things to come.

“Verzeihst du? Verzeihst du? Du bist ein völliger  
Schwchsinniger! Wisst du, wer ich bin?” His voice officially reached an office that should not have been possible for a grown man to produce and, again, Amelia winced. 

“Nein, es tut mir leid, ich nicht.”

She felt as Gilbert surged upright and, again, cringed into herself as his boots abused her back further, hissing harshly against her clenched teeth. His voice grew progressively louder with each word—“Ich bin General der Panzertruppe Gilbert Laurinaitis—selbst im Kommando der Sektion Vier Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie! Du könntest erschossen werden, weil ich vorgeschlagen habe, ich sei ein Betrüger!”  
“Ich–ich wonte dich nie beschuldigen—”

“Ja hast du!” There was a thumping sound. “Sag mit deinen  
Namen, ich werd’ dich selbst deinen Vorgesetzten melden!”

There was a commotion outside of the car, before the engine started up and there was the sound of a bottle shattering. 

The blanket was suddenly pulled off her and Amelia yelped. “Are you alright, mademoiselle?” The slur was gone and the smirk had returned. “My eternal apologies for your suffering.”

Amelia rubbed her mutilated spine as she sat up. “Don’t mention it.”

She climbed back at into her seat, legs still shaking with adrenaline. “So...what was literally any of that?”

Before Gilbert could answer Tolys piped up. “Oh, he's a drama queen—all of Germany knows it. Mutti used to say he'd do well in theatre.”

Amelia was surprised to find herself chuckling along with Tony's as Gilbert swatted the back of his brother's head.  
“And, also, it would be sort of hard to explain the situation my papers.”

“That being?”

“For me to know, and for you to never find out.”

Amelia decided to drop it, though her heart hammered with curiosity, and went back to staring out the window. 

Tolys chuckled. “Save the suspense for later---he’s not second in command to Klaus Barbie. Gil and I have . . . other responsibilities.”

They drove in silence as Tolys weaved through the streets of St. Étienne; a community shrouded in shadows and a deep-rooted dreariness. Save the occasional mangy dog or stray cat, Amelia saw nothing moving on the streets—only the occasional ruffle from the homes which lined them to prove the little village wasn't completely devoid of human life.

There must have been Résistance cells, hidden somewhere in the shadows, just out of her grasp, blending well into the general populations, overlooked by the ever-watchful eyes of the Gestapo at Section Four in Lyon. 

She's have to find a way to contact them if she wanted to make it out of France alive.

They crossed a series of railroad tracks and continued west, away from St. Étienne. Buildings gave way to clusters of trees, rolling fields and winter-barrened farms, as the Loire River Valley approached, and, to the left, a smooth black expanse of water shimmered silver-crested in the moonlight. 

Amelia tried her best to to push back the memories that forced their way into her mind, digging her fingernails into her wrist.

She refused to cry in front of these men.  
“River Loire.” Gilbert nodded. “There’s a castle 'round here somewhere, I hear. Nice place for an outing.”

“I’m gonna guess that's not on the agenda for today?”

“Not tonight, no.”

“Can I know where we're going now, at least?”

Gilbert shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”

“So…?”

“Village of no consequence—St. Victor-sur-Loire, probably fifteen kilometres from here—ever heard of it?” He didn't wait for her to answer. “We’re holding you until further instructions.”

“From who?”

“Not allowed to tell you anymore right now.” He shrugged again at this.

Amelia slouched down in her seat. “Fair enough.”


	9. the great escape

**Amelia must have fell asleep at one point—which wasn't too much of a shock, considering the recent turn her life had taken—and she was grateful for the rest all the same, even thought it was dark and restless, often compounded with the voices of her escorts—because she was startled away by the sound of a door slamming shut.**

She shot up as the door next to her opened, blinking and dizzy, stomach tight with hunger and head swimming. “Are we there?” It felt like someone had stuffed her mouth with cotton.

Lieutenant Gilbert Laurinaitis loomed over here. “Yes we are. Did you enjoy your time in Morpheus’ arms?”

Amelia didn't know what he meant by that, so she just ignored it.

As her eyes adjusted to the very early morning grey, she took in her surroundings. Behind Gilbert, she could make out the dark shadow of a stone wall, a heavy wooden door with a brass knocker which stood slightly ajar.

“Tino will point you in the right direction, mademoiselle. The washroom is near your quarters—around the back of the house.” He gestured broadly to the house, seemingly no real direction in mind.

Amelia nodded, half-mumbled a “Thank you” as she climbed three steps to enter the villa. She couldn't be sure if everything was as strange and warped as it seemed to be, or if it was just the sleep-induced confusion, and the ominous circumstances of her reality.

—most likely, it was both.

Tino joined her in the foyer, trailing after her through the lavishly furnished front parlour and hallways full of antiques and brocade's and Medieval-esque stone steps and down another long hallways, narrow and winding, which musty smell suggested a prolonged vacancy.

“In here, mademoiselle.” Tino jut his chin to a door at her left and Amelia brushed past him, into what she supposed most be her room. Tino clicked on the light behind her, startling her enough to almost trip over nothing. “Stay here until someone calls for you. Lieutenant Laurinaitis says there's no need to lock the door unless you try to escape.”

Amelia nodded absently, studying her new prison, tossing her coat onto a small wicker chair and beginning to practically stalk the perimeter of her confinement. On the wall opposite the door a window interrupted textured stone, framed by heavy wine-coloured drapery that ran luxuriously through her fingers but emanated the scent of of old. Next to that window—an ancient, dust-covered armoire, carved out of what seemed to be black walnut and cherrywood. It was taller than her and reeked of mothballs. The doors creaked when she opened them. Inside, it is as stuffed full of dresses, coats, skirts and blouses that, though the seemed to have been sitting there awhile, were stylish enough that Amelia assumed they must have been new—perhaps bought sometime in the past three years or so.

  
She closed the armoire and turned to see Tino yawning in the doorway. “The lieutenant said to use whatever you need.”

“How generous of him.”

“Have a good night, mademoiselle.”

Amelia nodded at him as he left, grateful to finally have a chance to change out of her blood-stained clothes.

She collapsed on the edge of her bed, hands still shaking. At this point, she had no idea how long they'd been doing that. She clenched and unclenched them, focusing on pacing out her breathing.

Slowly, robotically, she undid her laced and tugged off her boots, her trousers; pulled her shirt over her head. She kicked the blood-crusted trousers under her bed. She didn't need anymore reminders of Arthur's final moments. Inside her new wardrobe (what else was she supposed to call it?) she doing a soft white nightgown with little roses embroidered at the hem.

She turned out the light, ready to crawl into the bed and hope that a good night's rest would be enough to rid her of the memory of Dresdner's face so close to her own—but, suddenly, curious, padded across the room and yanked her blackout curtains aside.

Below her, a cigarette glowed yellow against the darkness.

  
She wrenched her curtains shut and threw herself across the room, ignoring the dust that ride in a tiny cloud above her from the pillow, too dehydrated to cry.

The last thing she remembered was the sound of the telephone ringing somewhere in the villa.

**Her sleep had been dreamless and uninterrupted—well into the next day's afternoon.**

The only thing she knew: she was monstrously hungry and craved a long warm bath.

Preferably with rose petals, now that she thought about it.

  
Or with candles. And white wine.

Or both.

She crept down the hallway to—what she was pretty sure was, at least—the bathroom, eternally grateful there was nobody currently occupying the tiny room.

  
In fact, the whole villa was silent as death; as if all her German guards had abandoned her in this strange, empty residence in the middle of France.

If only.

At the door of the small bathroom, she paused. Squinted down the stairway through dust particles suspended in the translucent rays of the sun, her senses heightened as she strained for any signs of life below.

Not a sound---not even the scuttle of rodents.

She looked to her left past her bedroom door, to the nest two down the hall, and a window facing out northwards.

Nope. Nada.

Eyebrows furrowed and nose crinkled with concentration, she krept past the first door, enjoying the coolness of the polished wood against her tired, bruised feet. She touched the knob of the second door lightly, turning it slowly until the latch gave way with a silent click and the door hung free. With the same gentle caution, she peered inside, inching in until the edge of a desk and the curled chord of a telephone came into view.

No signs of life there.

Her hands trembled and she tucked them under her arms, gripping her nightgown. The warmth of fresh bathwater against her skin was beckoning---and safe. She couldn’t forget that this house---beautiful as it was---was guarded hostiles; and God knew what they wanted from her. Though they had said they weren’t going to kill her---saved her even---but since when did Amelia Jones become stupid enough to ever trust a German?

She set her jaw: her luck would hold. And if the boches were occupied elsewhere, she may as well make some use of her time. Scope out the area. See what’s what.

Find an opening.

She was quick now, moving across the corridor, down the stairs. Hesitated at the bottom---two muffled voices carried up from the basement. She glanced through the parlour window down another hall---an empty driveway, trees standing proud over grey snow and an imposing stone wall. No car---one of the men had apparently gone, and two other chatted in the basement.

Her feet whispered against cold tile as she made her way to what she hoped was a kitchen. A little food on the way couldn’t hurt. She’d need it anyway.

Another corridor; more doorways.

More to explore, she supposed.

Just as satisfying as a warm meal.

Maybe not ‘just as.’

She passed several bedrooms with doors ajar---and by ‘several,’ Amelia quite distinctly meant ‘three’---their insides a disarray, typical of male inhabitants. Amelia wrinkled her nose. The stench of cigarettes was overwhelming, especially with the draft coming from somewhere to her right.

Another staircase---small, dark, stone, cold, unused. Though she doubled it would lead her anywhere near the kitchen---or anything all the useful at all---she found herself going up, as if her feet had a mind of their own, as if a supernatural force had taken possession of her body, the pain in her stomach be damned.

It delivered her to a small, long, undisturbed sitting room and another, even tighter staircase to the attic. She paused to study the solid oak door in front of her, upper arms sandpaper from the draft that easily penetrated her thin cotton night dress.

She tested the handle, chewing the inside of her lips. Locked.

Of course.

She contemplated picking the lock—

and then, the distant rumble of an approaching automobile.

She backed away from the door, stumbling on the first step of the stairs, before catching herself on the railway. Pain as a sliver of wood bit into her palm, but she’d deal with that later.

She turned, sprinting down the stairs, across the corridor, pausing only for a second when she saw the lieutenant’s large Citroën pulling in through the parlour window.

A door slammed, rattling the windows. Amelia ducked and ran, heart racing, skin clammy. Slid behind a musty armchair as if the entirety of the German army was on her heels. Footsteps faded down the stairs---heavy, solid. Boots that could absolutely crush her ribcage if she was found out.

But she wasn’t.

She exhaled against the wall.

**Amelia stretched out as far she could in the warm water.** Her toes appeared at the opposite end of the tub—and when she pulled them down, heat-reddened knees broke the surface. She slid down her chin and closed her eyes as the steam crashed against her pink-tipped nose.

Reluctantly, she pushed her shoulders out of the warm water and reached for a large bar of soap—the sort her mother used to scrub off her adventures when Amelia to scrub off her adventures when Amelia was young and little more than a menace, let loose on the streets of Paris. She ran the bar down her arm_it smelled better than what she remembered, thank God. Perhaps something mixed in with the lard? Or maybe she smelled so bad in the first place anything was an improvement?

Yeah. Probably that.

Her thoughts turned to Major Ludwig Beilschmidt—which felt uncomfortable in general, but in a tub especially—though she wasn’t quite sure why. He’d been quite clear with her: she was no longer his concern, out of his hands. That’s exactly how he had phrased it. In fact, she doubted she’d ever been in the same room with him—fortunately.

The thoughts of her incarceration—he browned bloodstains on her clothes and the moldy cellar sent shivers running down her spine.

_Good_.

At least with these new Germans, she had a real bed and was permitted warm baths and food any time she pleased. At least she wasn’t being tortured. Or dead.

At least there was still a chance.

Who had orchestrated her escape from Dresdner? Amelia frowned stiffly at the thought; she, however comfortable, was still a prisoner. Nothing had changed in the regard.

Amelia brushed the bruises on her wrist, the tenderness of the stitches above her ear.

Maybe not ‘nothing.’

If not for the lieutenant’s assistance, she was as good as dead. Gilbert Laurinaitis and his men, for better or for worse, had saved her life—or, at the very least, postponed it.

Amelia shifted, suddenly on edge.

Though he’d been quite friendly to her, she could not deny the mistrust she felt. It was not his own doing—he’d made it clear he was acting for someone else.

And he clearly---clearly---was not entirely stable and completely dangerous---she couldn’t deny that. Not if she valued her life.

Who would’ve ordered him to kidnap her? What was there to gain from her capture? A bartering chip with the Americans? The Résistance?

Her mind supplied a name almost immediately.

Major Beilschmidt. Ludwig Beilschmidt.

She couldn’t deny the kindness she sensed in him, totally incongruous to his uniform and the horrific regime it represented.

But why would he order for her to be kidnapped from someone else representing the Third Reich?

Amelia lathered her hair with shampoo, pulling apart the tangles in her curls, incredibly grateful that she’d had the sense to lop it all off before she left.

Was it a power play? He hadn’t seemed to be a fan of Dresdner---and Dresdner him. Perhaps this was the major’s way of getting Dresdner removed altogether.

She hardly knew him yet, somehow, she couldn’t see this being his style.

Amelia took a deep breath before sliding her head underwater, ignoring the doctor’s orders to keep her stitches dry.

At this point, what was the use anyway?

Perhaps he felt Dresdner’s methods weren’t as effective as his? Well, no. There was no ‘perhaps’ about it, was there? He had made it quite clear in their last meeting; that had it to be it. She could find no other reasonable explanation.

Her knees were beginning to grow cold.

Amelia reached for a towel, stood, and vigorous rubbed herself dry---until her skin was pink, rug-burned---as if it could scrub the horrors of her past few days away.

Quickly, she dressed herself in some soft blue thing and undergarments she had found in her---no, the armoire.

She smoothed the skirt as she turned toward the bathroom mirror, which flared to just below her knees, like gossamer petals. The fine bodice was a creamy blue, and pearl buttons marched up the front to meet a barely-modest neckline just below her collarbone.

Gingerly, she took a fine-toothed comb to her hair that she had managed to find before the bath was too full for her to get in without spilling water everywhere.

It would be a long time before her life regained some semblance of normalcy. She was already well aware of that.

But she had not idea of where it would even start.

If it would start.

Amelia turned off the light and raised the blackout curtain to watch the ground below. Forty-eight hours ago they had arrived at the ancient villa that stood overlooking a bed in the precocious Loire. According to Gilbert, several times a year the river changed directions in some spots, and flooded in others. Mist from the rivers blurred her vision, and she squinted stubbornly against it, watching for any signs of movement in the darkness. After a few minutes of adjustment, she recognized some familiar shapes in the distance: stone walls that closed off the perimeter of the property, a small, abandoned garden, overrun with decaying weeds, flush against it.

In the afternoon, she had followed those walls to wide fields and the river bank, all the while painfully aware of Tolys trailing behind her at a “respectable distance,” as he’d called it, as she was a lady, and he didn’t want her to feel hounded. That was his explanation, at least. But, nonetheless, her captors had at least allowed her some freedom---though he had eventually called her back once she reached the road and insisted they returned to the villa, making only polite small talk that Amelia only half-answered.

She continued to study the darkness below her window. The shadow from a rotting peach tree grew from the slope to her left, and beyond that were the ruins of an old stone shed. To her right Amelia could make out nothing but blackness, indicating that the river lay less than a stone throw’s from the walls of the villa.

She stood unmoving at the edge of her window, concentrated and aware. She wanted to be sure there was no guard. Last night it had been Tino---Gilbert had said it had been him the night before. By default, it must have been Tolys---not that he was anywhere to be seen.

Amelia continued to watch the shadows closely.

After what felt like hours but was only around fifteen minutes, she was able to convince her anxieties that Tolys was not hiding behind a stone wall or peeking up at her window from behind some corner. Satisfied that her warm woolen trousers and boots would be enough of a barrier against the cold, she moved to her door, lightly turning the handle; as she had expected, locked from the outside. She pressed her ear against the rough surface: no signs of life. No voices, footsteps, breathing. Empty.

Again, she crossed her bedroom, more confident than she’s felt for little over a week.

You’re a Jones, Amy. You can do this.

She pulled the sheet from her bed, tearing them into long, thick strips and tied them together into a makeshift rope, which she attached to her bedpost. It had barely reached the windowsill. Amelia combed through the room, opening every drawer, checking every pocket, in search of a pair of scissors. Or anything with a sharp edge, really.

Finally---a hand mirror. Small, but it was something. Better than nothing. She crushed it under her shoe, hoping nobody would notice the crunch of glass splintering in the stillness.

With the largest shard of glass, Amelia attacked the comforter, slicing through its cushiony insides and serparting strips of cotton and batting, ignoring the way it slid painfully across the palm of her hand. There, she added to the sheet-rope until she was positive her feet at least reached a safe dropping distance. Gathering the soft coil of not-rope in her arms, she studied the ground below her until she was positive Tolys was indeed shirking his duty.

She tossed the fabric out into the night.

It looked easier than it actually was.

Grabbing hold of the rope, allowing herself to drop from the solid safety of the windowsill took all the courage she could muster---all the courage in her body---and when she had fallen to the length of her arms she hung there, terrified, willing herself to not look at the ground two stories below. She found a knot between strips and stood on it, forcing her boots to lock in place and praying the tie would actually hold. She loosened her grip and allowed herself to slip further downwards, until latching onto a new knot---shoulders screaming---where her head was level with the top of the first-story parlour window. Heart thumping painfully, she let go and landed in in the snow at the base of the wall, crumpling as she landed so her already-aching knees wouldn’t absorb the total shock of the fall. On unsteady legs, Amelia brushed the snow off her raw hands and wobbly knees, eyes at the window of her former cell, grateful to finally be down.

“Not too original, mademoiselle----I think I’ve seen that technique exactly in some American movie before.”

Amelia whirled toward the sound of the of the voice, curse caught in her throat, almost losing her footing on the slippery, uneven terrain. Squinting through the mist---an all too familiar figure released against a stone wall, arms folded, dark overcoat draped casually over his shoulders, which were hunched over ever so slightly to watch her intently. Major Ludwig Beilschmidt pushed himself upright, his gait as natural and relaxed as a stroll along the beach.

“Where did you think you were going, Amelia?”

“Fishing.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“You’ll scare off the fish.”

Ludwig laughed, but his eyes were stormy. “A little cold for an escape attempt, don’t you think?”

“Well,” Amelia crossed her arms, “with all due respect, I wasn’t plannin’ on waitin’ ‘til summer, Major.”

Ludwig nodded. “I must apologise for curtailing your enthusiasm, but it is my somber duty to tell you that there are several highly sensible reasons you should not continue with your ‘plans.’ First…” Ludwig pointed down the gravel road. “That road is the only way out, and there are soldiers stationed at a guard shack not too far from here. Second…” He waved a dismissive hand in the direction of St. Étienne. “That city is crawling with Germans and Vichy---and you cannot be planning on swimming across the weather. Third, you have no papers and it’s after curfew, which means we shoot first and ask questions later.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, biting her tongue. Maybe I’d prefer that.

“And, finally, most important, mademoiselle,” he shook his head sadly, “I have traveled all the way from Belley to spend more time with you, and I couldn’t imagine losing my chance to get to know you better.”

“I thought I wasn’t your problem anymore.” She popped her lips.

“Well, I’ve decided to make you my problem.”

Amelia watched him soberly. “I guess under the circumstances I could postpone my outing.” She shrugged away from his proffered arm. “Keyword: postpone.”

“I would expect nothing less from you, Miss Jones.”

As they walked towards the front entrance of the villa, Amelia kept her back ramrod straight, chin held high, chin held high, ignoring the heat high on her cheeks and spreading over her neck and chest.

At the door Ludwig unlocked the door with a key straight from a child’s fairytale book and held the door open for her, bowing slightly. Amelia brushed past him, jaw set so tightly it might crumble to little more than dust. She allowed him to lead her to the kitchen, where Tolys and Gilbert, eating bratwurst and drinking coffee. As usual, a cigarette dangled from between Gilbert’s teeth and Tolys was smirking at him, seeming to be teasing him in some language Amelia had no name for her, what she did know is that their smiles were remarkably similar---both mischievous and charming.

“Look what I found at the river, Tolys.” Ludwig shed his overcoat, draping it over his arm, and pulled out a chair away from the table for Amelia.

Gilbert cackled, exuberantly tipping his chair back against the wall. “I knew she’d do it.”

Tolys blanched, choking on a mouthful of bratwurst. “When--when did you arrive, Ludva?”

“Over an hour ago.” Ludwig’s tone was light as he combed the kitchen for edibles. “I’ve been watching the  
entertainment outside.”

Amelia glowered at the major, arms folded defiantly.

“You missed a good show, Tolys.” Ludwig shook his head in feigned mourning. “If only you had been there when you were supposed to be . . . ”

Tolys mumbled an apology, sending annoyed glances in Gilbert’s direction. He only winked in response.

Amelia watched Ludwig wearily. “Why are you here?”

Ludwig poured hot water into a cup and added a spoonful of honey. He placed it on the table along with a loaf of bread.

“Captain Dresdner returned to Belley rather shaken, Amelia. It seems some maquisards assaulted him, torched his transportation---I wonder who on earth is insane enough to do that---” Gilbert simply raised his coffee mug, smirk wider than Amelia thought possible---“and then left him to die in a snowbank.”

“Tragic,” Tolys murmured against his mug.

“It happened in my area and would be so unprofessional for me not to search for you---under the circumstances.” He brandished a bread knife, his smile relaxed. “You were a valued prisoner, after all, and will be sorely missed by the Gestapo. They will waste no time looking for you.”

“Wish I could have seen it.” Gilbert speared his sausage and spoke around a large mouthful. “The old rope trick, eh, Ludva?”

Amelia purposefully ignored him. “You speak in past tense, Major. You forget I’m still a prisoner here.”

“Oh, of course you are---but a prisoner no longer in the Gestapo’s loving care.”

“Will they look here?”

“Highly unlikely.” Ludwig indicated to the food in front of him. “Won’t you join me? The bread is excellent---no sawdust.”

Amelia shook her head.

Ludwig continued. “Why would maquis kidnappers bring you here? No, the Gebirgsjager will be focusing their search in the Rhône region where guerillas are known to operate.”

“German alpine troops.” Amelia turned to Gilbert. “Some of the best fighters in the Führer’s army.”

Tolys nodded. “And our friend Tino is one of them---”

“The best of them, really---”

“Which is another reason you wouldn’t have succeeded tonight.”

Amelia raised her eyebrow at the brothers. “And you two are as well, I assume?”

Again, Gilbert cackled, “Oh, definitely not.”

“You insult us, miss.”

“We are far beyond their skill sets---”

“Trained in Prussia---”

“Prussia’s best.” Gilbert’s chest swelled with pride. “Which, by extension, makes us the best in Europe.”

“Skilled in all forms of combat in all sorts of terrains---”

“As well as sabotage, spying---”

“Fluent in several languages.”

Ludwig grinned. “And Tolys and Gilbert are the best of them.”

Gilbert let his chair slam to the floor with a deafening crack. “Now, I really should be modest...but how can I argue with the truth. He’s right: I am the best.”

Ludwig rolled his eyes. “You’ll notice Gil’s about the most guy you’ll meet.”

Amelia chuckled, despite herself.

“Only the best for you, Major.” Both he and Tolys stood up, contents of their plates gone and ready to move. “We’re off to bed---that is after I confiscate one long hazardous rope.” He winked at Amelia and laughed as the duo left the kitchen, shutting the door behind them.

Amelia frowned at the major. “Why’d you order Gilbert to kidnap me?”

“I have more questions for you. Obviously.”

“All your questions would’ve been answered by the Gestapo.”

“Yes, and I’m sure they would tell me all they discovered—after they buried you.”

“What do you care?” Heat rose high in Amelia’s cheeks. “You’ve captured me, killed my fiancé…” Her voice caught in the barbed wire of her sandpaper throat. “Imprisoned me and interrogated me for two days. But now you care? All the sudden you care if the Gestapo kills me?”

Ludwig’s voice came out measured. “Yes, Amelia. I might be able to help you---might be in need of your services.”

Amelia curved her lip. “How dare you even think---!”

For a split second Ludwig’s face reddened, before turning into a deep scowl. “That’s not what I meant, Amelia.”

Amelia’s words were like tin through her clenched teeth. “Then what did you mean?”

“I--I can’t explain now.” Beilschmidt pushed himself away from the table. “But what I can tell you is that your future depends on what I decide over the next few days.”

“Really? So if I answer your questions to your satisfaction then I go free?”

“No, but---”

“Then I don’t wanna hear it.” Amelia turned away from him, nose stubbornly in the air.

Ludwig inhaled sharply. “No, but you’ll be a lot better off than if you refuse to cooperate.”

“And what if I fail your little test?”

“I haven’t decided. I might send you the remainder of the way to Lyon.”

Amelia felt sick, panic swelling at the base of her throat. “What y’mean to say is that my life is in your hands.”

“You could put it that way, yes.”

“You Nazis sure love to play God, dontcha?” Amelia shook her head, snorting.

“Look at it however you wish, mademoiselle. I’m not going to argue with you tonight.”

“O mighty one,” Amelia bowed mockingly, “I would beg your permission to to retire to my cell.”

Ludwig sighed. “Pleasant dreams, Amelia Jones.”


	10. Chapter 10

If only her mother could see her now.

She almost managed to crack a smile through the mask of intense mask of concentration at the horror she could imagine on her mother’s face to see her only daughter down on her knees to pick a lock. Her training had prepared her for more than parachute drops and deciphering codes, and with her newfound skills---it would be easy for her to send a message to Baker Street, alerting them to her predicament. 

She smirked at the almost imperceptible click as the lock yielded. Though much less sophisticated than the tools she’d been forced to surrender at Belley, her hairpin was a good understudy in a pinch. 

Amelia straightened, listening for only signs of detection from the Germans. Tino’s snore continued down the hall and Amelia’s shoulders relaxed as she turned her attention to the task at hand. 

Wooden floorboards. A small, dirty window. Cobwebs hanging from the rafters. Dusty, stale air. The attic brought back memories of Captain Dresdner, and she touched her stitches with numb fingers, wondering now such a tiny man could hit with such a force that she might be damaged so permanently. 

Focus.

The sight of the large radio set displayed so temptingly on the table before her sent a rush of euphoria rippling through her. She gravitated toward the heaven-sent object like a moth to flame, extracting the silk WOK from the sleeve of her night gown and sending silent praises to God for the existence of the tailors at The Thatched Barn. And Marks, she supposed, for it was at his request they had worked their camouflage magic on her boots, producing a small sleeve in the lining for her to hide her code key---so well done, she’d managed to even keep her WOK hidden from the detail-oriented eyes if the female guard who searched her after her arrest. Even as she searched for seeming hours on end for weapons, documents and suicide pills, her WOK, somehow, in its hiding place, evaded her inspection.

She had no means of cutting or destroying the sequence she was about to use---but there was no time to think about that. She slid onto the chair and faced the set, taking in the controls. She knew them better than herself; this was the model she first learned cryptography with in Bedford.

She took a deep breath. This was the WOK’s first real test---to discover whether an agent transmitting in a dangerous environment, with no way to encrypt her message on paper, with nothing but a WOK and a memorised poem to assist her, could still manage to transmit a message without deadly errors or double transposition.

Amelia turned on the power and reached for the headset.

Her hands darted between silk, with its lines of codes, and the machine---her forearm burned as she typed. Her unexpected traffic might not be heard by the coders of Grendon---or her columns by misaligned, words misspelled---a game of deciphering with the indecipherable, likely taken up by Marks himself. 

If the Germans didn’t hear her first.

She added her security check at the end of her message and sat back to wait. No response.

Field operators were supposed to transmit at pre-arranged times. No one would expect her call, and she had to hope that some insomniac with nothing better to do would be listening.

Glancing at the closed door, she attacked the machine, re-transmitting the encryptions as quickly and accurately as she could. There was no room for error---no time to take her time. Every moment she was on air, her life expectancy diminished---but every second she stayed here---

Her fingers slowed.

Too late she had noticed the strong scent of cigarette smoke.

She felt herself lifted in the air thrown onto the floor, splinters sliding painfully into her palms as she seethed in red-hot pain.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Amelia flinched at the uncharacteristic fury in Major Ludwig Beilschmidt’s voice as it sliced through the musty attic air.

A hand on her shoulder hauled her to her feet---skin prickled as she felt the cold barrel of a gun dig into the side of her jaw, pinching her flesh. She began to tremble as she heard Lieutenant Gilbert Laurinaitis cock the pistol. 

This was it. It really was. 

“Look at me.” Ludwig’s voice held a mix of disbelief and anger.

“Want me to shoot her?” Gilbert’s voice was cold, mechanical---nothing like his usual humour. His fingers bruised the skin of her shoulder and the gun dug deeper into the soft flesh of her throat, making it hard to breathe.

She felt cold.

Drained.

“Does he need to shoot you, Amelia?” Ludwig towered over her, his hair sleep-ruffled and eyes penetrating. She strained to meet his gaze, sensing the storm had returned to his eyes, and it was more than just anger.

“No.”

“Let her go.”

Gilbert released her and she crumbled to the floor, face ashen, palms clammy.

“On your feet.”

She struggled to rise, and the major grasped her open arm and yanked her up to a standing position. “Do you realise what you’ve done?”

She stared numbly ahead of her, mouth stuffed with cotton balls.

“When the Funk-Horchdienst comes searching, it’s you they’ll find. Do you honestly think you could get away with it?”

Amelia glanced at Gilbert, at the barrel still trained steadily on her, gleaming cruelly in the dull moonlight. “I knew the risks.”

Her voice was barely a whisper.

Ludwig turned to Gilbert. “Get me a pencil and paper, Lieutenant.”

“Any chance they got her bearings?”

“We have to assume. They know this is a military facility, but they might stop by.”

A shot rang out, grazing past the skin on her neck. Gilbert glowered at her. “I’ll be back.”

Amelia whipped her head around to lock her gaze with Ludwig’s, gasping for air, eyes stinging.

“Are you trying to make this difficult for me?”

“Let go of my arm.”

For a moment Ludwig didn’t move, as if reminding her she was in no position to tell him what to do. But he released her and stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers. “Explain yourself, mademoiselle. What message were you trying to send?”

Amelia shrugged helplessly. “My location. I want to let them know where I am.”

The major studied her carefully, and Amelia recognised that elusive emotion in his eyes: disappointment.

Surprised, she shifted uneasily. She could handle his fury---she could even demonstrate a bit of her own before inevitable demise---but the strange idea of him being disappointed in her was too much for her to handle, shook her resolve.

Too unexpected.

It shook her determination in a way that stunned her.

He turned, straightened her overturned chair, and gestured toward it. “Sit, Amelia, we have work to do.”

Amelia complied, back stiff and eyes averted. Gilbert returned with a piece of graph paper and a small pencil. He placed them on the table in front of Amelia before turning and leaving the room.

Ludwig tapped the paper in front of her. “Write the message you transmitted, encoded exactly how you sent it.” He plucked the crumpled silk WOK and laid it out before her. “Use this key. I assume it’s yours?”

She hoped he heard the bitterness in her voice, like acid on her tongue. “Why not jus’ tell you what I meant to say?”

“I have my reasons. Begin, please.” Ludwig’s back faced her as he stared out window. Every cell in her body screamed to refuse---to deny, resist, be prepared to take her secrets to the grave. But then she remembered a darkened basement cell, stitches, and a man who showed her kindness completely foreign to his position. 

She looked at the paper. “How will you know I’m writing the same message?”

He sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

Amelia lifted an eyebrow. “Why?”

Ludwig folded his arms and didn’t torn to look at her. “Just start writing, Amelia.”

Ten minutes later her pencil stilled. Ludwig turned away from the window, walked to the table, and picked her paper and the silk WOK. He studied her silently as he folded the paper, slipping both items into his breast pocket. In the next instant, he produced a pair of handcuffs, and in a fluid motion, locked her wrists together. 

“You have raised a new set of questions, mademoiselle---questions I must have answered before I can help you.”

He left her alone, with Amelia studying her shackled wrists, wondering what he could possibly mean.

Three hours later Ludwig Beilschmidt returned. Without preamble the major laid her coded message in front of her, followed by two others that must’ve been written in his own eyes. Disbelief closed her throat as she quickly scanned the contents.

“Your messages from Belley.” His voice was the sharp edge of a knife. “Decode them.”

“What makes you think these are mine?”

“I know they’re yours, Amelia. I don’t just ‘think.’”

“How do you know?”

“Is it not obvious, Amelia? Did they teach you so little in London?” He shook his head. “Well, if you don’t, let me educate you---it takes as little as two intercepted transmissions for an operator’s signature to be recognise your traffic whether it originates from Paris or my neighbours basement.” His fingers drummed against the back of her chair and she shivered. “And---as if that wasn’t enough---your security checks are similar. You might as well have run an announcement in the daily letter.”

Amelia stared at him in shock as he unlocked her cold, tingling hands.

“You were very lucky to escape my officers, Miss Jones: you would not be here if you hadn’t.” His hand rested firmly, heavily, on her shoulder. “Decode them. I will not ask again.”

She closed her eyes. “How will you know…?”

“If you’re telling the truth?” Ludwig rested a finger against the paper. “I’ve already deciphered today’s message---you used selections from a poem familiar to me, unfortunately: The Road Not Taken. Robert Frost. A personal favourite, actually.”

Amelia stared at his finger, white against the paper. “Oh.”

He dangled the silk scrap of fabric inches in front of her nose. “I assume you meant to remove and destroy the indicator keys you had just used---before we interrupted. Am I right?”

“Each indicator is random, Major Beilschmidt. You won’t---”  
“I know that already.” He let the silk drop unceremoniously into her lap. “But you underestimate my men---they’ve been working steadily since we intercepted your first little transmission in Belley.”

“Perhaps, as you say, your coders are incredibly talented.” 

Amelia took a deep breath and forced her voice to stay steady. “But I cannot decode these two transmission without the key---which has been destroyed.”

“I understand. But you know what messages you’ve encoded, don’t you, mademoiselle?” His grip on her shoulder tightened and she shuddered. “Write them down.”

“Yes, Major,” she murmured.

Amelia picked up the pencil, and began writing, her letters light, shaky, spidery, her mind hesitant as she moved her hand across the page. She finished writing the first---her “test message,” as it were---and turned to the second. She stared at the page, sucking on the inside of her cheek.

Not only had the message been freelance, but had emotions attached to it, memories that twisted her stomach. Hindered her concentration. Major Beilschmidt hovered over her, scrutinising her progress. A headache built up in her left temple. She hissed through her clenched teeth, trying to ignore the building pain as she wrote.

Finally, she dropped the pencil on the table, stretching her tight fingers.

Beilschmidt bent past her shoulder to retrieve the papers and the silk. “You will wait here, mademoiselle, while I check what you have written against my coders in Belley are preparing for me.” She turned to stare blankly at him, though her blood missed under her skin. “If you’ve lied to me and your messages are different from theirs, or your transmissions to London will endanger the lives of my men, I will escort you immediately to Lyon.”

Amelia watched the sunrise with her forehead pressed against the window---exhausted, numb. As much as she tried to ignore the disappointment in Beilschmidt’s eyes when he had puked her away from the headset . . . the feel of a gun digging into her skin . . . 

Why did she care? Why should she care that she’d let him down? What did he expect? For her to just be a good little prisoner? To just roll over, and let whatever happens, happen?

Flushed with irritation, she turned when she heard the door open. Again, Beilschmidt was alone, and at his request she returned to her chair.

“Ingenious, these silks, mademoiselle.” Ludwig smoothed the cloth again on the table in front of her. “My men are excellent decoders, but your messages might have caused them more than their usual amount of grief.” He unlocked her wrists before arranging six papers in front of her. “They succeeded, though---as I predicted.”

Amelia studied the messages, a strange burning in her chest. Aside from a few spelling errors on the decoders’ part, Ludwig’s men had done a perfect---job as if someone had handed them the destroyed code keys on a silver platter. Director Marks would be devastated when he learned that his silks could be so easily compromised. 

Ludwig read them aloud. “‘Arrived safely, debrief in four hours. New German officer at garrison Belley, drop site compromised, new coordinates required before next drop . . . ‘” 

Amelia chewed on her cheeks.

“‘Germans aware of drop. Abort and reschedule . . .’” The major shook his head. “If you had mentioned this to your Résistance fiancé and any of my men had been shot, I would have considered this message your ticket to Lyon.” He rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You are lucky, mademoiselle.”

“You Germans keep tellin’ me that, Major, but, honest, I don’t feel very lucky right now.”

“Nevertheless, you are fortunate, Amelia. I chose not to arrest you in the café, you escaped my direction-finding units, my men didn’t shoot you when you came flying down the mountainside, and you’re not with Dresdner---at the moment. Yes, I consider you a bit more than very lucky.”

“You forgot to mention how lucky I am to be here in France.”

“That’s one thing I’ve been curious about. In fact, I’ve been so curious that I decided to do a little research after you left with Dresdner. I had questions about you---questions that couldn’t be resolved with your answers. So tell me, why send a young woman with little to no military training and half a college degree to France?”

Amelia thinned her lips, staring at her shoes.

“Would I be far off to presume you were sent here to test this new coding system? That the SOE’s finally aware of how my team loves your agents’ little poem codes?”

“They’re aware.”

He leaned against the table, as if this was a casual conversation between friends. Amelia wetted her lips nervously.

“A hypothetical benefit of the new system would be faster transmissions, therefore less airtime and less chance an agent could be discovered.” Ludwig nodded toward the messages on the table. “None of these messages come close to the old poem codes’ two-fifty rule, and none of your traffic even reached the fifteen-minute average of past codes. Can you explain it to me?”

Amelia studied her chewed down fingernails carefully. “’Sa long story---too long.”

Hopefully…

“I’m good at stories, especially long ones. So let me guess.” Ludwig bent to be eye level with her, his voice soft through it’s harsh tone. “SOE knows we devour your agents’ poetry for breakfast, and in order to save more lives someone dreams up a system that doesn’t require memorisation and therefore can’t be tortured out of a captured agent.”

Amelia looked away.

“And you travel to Britain with the WAE, attend cryptology school, and, because of your dual nationality, flawless French and pretty smile, are approached by the SOE to join their pool of ladies breaking codes at Grendon. You’re eager to do anything in your power to defeat les boches and perhaps even prolong the life of your Arthur Kirkland, who fights for a nation that’s not his own, because that’s what spies do. Am I right so far?”

Amelia’s skin felt clammy. Even if she wanted to answer, she supposed her tongue has to think and threat too dry to say anything anyway. So, instead, she looked at him and held his gaze.

“Perhaps the daughter of renowned structural engineer and Parisian professor William Jones was then recruited by some representative of the only General Charles de Gaulle---who, I believe, currently hides away in Algiers. After the last war the distinguished Dr Jones was a consultant with General Philippe Pétain---who would recruit your father to assist rebuilding much of what the Allies destroyed in their own little conflict with Germany. Am I correct so far?”

Amelia shook her head. “My father’s never moved to England.”

“I understand. But you knew of the connection between de Gaulle and your father.” She didn’t like how it wasn’t a question.

“That has nothing to do with my decision to come to France, Major. I came to be with . . . ” Amelia swallowed the heat rising in her throat forcefully, gripping her knees. She wasn’t going to cry---not again.

“Your father took several trips to England well you attended the university in Massachusetts. You knew about these trips and grew understandable curious. One day you confronted your father and he told you all about de Gaulle and his efforts to organise guerilla cells in France into a cohesive unit---the Free French.”

Amelia’s face reddened. “Where do you come up with such nonsense?”

Major Beilschmidt’s lips twisted. “I’m an intelligence officer---this is what I do.” 

“There’s no way you could find out these things about me without an outside source---” Amelia stopped, face growing hotter. She may as well have spilled her guts right then and there, for all she’d just told him. All she had just revealed. 

Ludwig leaned back in his chair, an amused smile playing on his lips. “But there’s a twist to this story that I don’t understand.” His voice broke through Amelia’s thoughts like the sudden crashing of dishes against a tiled floor.

“How does Henri Giraud, co-president with de Gaulle of the Comité Français de la Libération Nationale, fir into the picture?”

Amelia had never heard the name and continue to trace the sharp line of the major’s jaw in her mind’s eyes. 

“Both Giraud and de Gaulle met in Morocco at the beginning of this year---for a reason I have  
no talent to discover.” His smile was now humble, almost sheepish---as if conceding to the fact he might not be as omnipresent as he lets on. “I assume that since Giraud also liaisons with the Vichy government, and General de Gaulle is not exactly friendly with Pétain, there must be some sort of understanding between the Vichy and de Gaulle organisations.”

“I thought the Vichy were with the Germans. They follow everything yous say, don’t they?”

“Not everything, Amelia. Why do you think we had to come south?”

Amelia picked at her thumb.

Because yous’re imperialist pigs?

“The Vichy collaborates with us, yes---at least, to some extent. Pétain, I believe, is not wholly convinced of the Führer’s good will; and because of this, under the rules of the armistice, that makes his authority forfeit.”

“So, he’s a puppet.”

“Exactly.” He smiled, almost apologetically. She really wished he’d stop doing thing---she wasn’t going to forgive him. Not after all he’d done.

But, well, it was an emotion. A human one.

He wasn’t entirely a robot, not all machine.

But still a cog in Germany’s war machine nonetheless: She had to stop forgetting that fact. Pretty blue eyes and all.

His eyes aren’t pretty.

They were.

Stop it.

“So perhaps Pétain secretly authorises President Giraud to research the possibilities of cooperating with de Gaulle and his Free French behind our backs. We have no proof of this betrayal, of course, bit it makes sense that after we break out end of the bargain and cross the demarcation line they might find a way to express their disappointment…”

Amelia pushed a loose hair behind her ear. As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, she was intrigued.

“Perhaps Giraud decides the best way to help the two rival French governments secretly cooperate is to help de Gaulle’s agents and freedom fighters coordinate more effectively with the SOE in Britain and the OSS in America. Both organisations working to help the Free French could, and this all theoretically of course, put a stronghold on German forces in France when the Allies invade.”

“So. What does all that have to do with me?” Now her hands shook, and there was no way for her to check if he believed it to be in Calais. Well. At least no way for her to test him without arousing suspicion. 

“Patience, Miss Jones, I’m getting there.” She didn’t like the way he looked directly into her eyes, how measured his tone was. She didn’t like how he was practically forcing her to study the impossible depth in his eyes, the worry lines that framed his eyes, the way they had Arthur’s . . . 

“. . . any frivioulus squabbles between the two French authorities can undermine the Résistance in France and the rest of the countries the Allies plan to invade. So, at de Gaulle’s suggestion, Giraud meets in London with your father, requesting for his assistance with guerilla organizations in France.”

Amelia blinked. Her father?

“And your father sees this as a way to save lives, doesn’t her? As a way to assist an old friend, a way to honour his late wife’s name? And then, of course, he has a future son-in-law working with the SOE as a spy for the British, and an intelligent, motivated young daughter who is at the mercy of the SOE---both of whom he feels obligated to protect. So he visits headquarters in London, and is met with the problem of your easily decipherable poem codes---child’s work for the Germans, and he---after weeks of research---comes to the conclusion that lives could be saved by reworking the already existing codes.

“Naturally, he recommends the code be tested and implemented as soon as possible---anything to derail the Germans---and so de Gaulle sends a representative to the SOE to negotiate putting said code to use.”

Amelia head swam; none of this made sense. None of this could be real.

He had to be lying to her, cause her to slip up, say something she didn’t mean to. Correct something he said. Prove she knew more than she had been letting on.  
“You thought of this all by yourself?” Her laughter was delirious. “Dontcha have somethin’ better to do with your spare time?”

If he was lying, how was he getting so many little details right?

How come he continued to look her in the eyes; how come he seemed to sincere?

He’s manipulating you.

It didn’t feel like it. Amelia knew when she was being manipulated.

Not this time.

She frowned as Ludwig laughed. “With the help of some sources within the SOE and de Gaulle’s organisation, of course.”

Oh.

Of course.

Amelia mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Electricity raced up and down her spine.

Ludwig watched her carefully, and when he spoke again, his voice softened. “How did you  
expect we would know where to be in order to intercept your transmission, decipher your traffic without the code keys?”

She hadn’t thought about it.

“Miss Jones, I’m not omniscient.”

Amelia felt tears prick at her eyes. So, that was it? Her mission had to been doomed to fail since before she even dropped into France? Her chest tightened. All she had wanted was to be with Arthur, to help her country---both of her countries---and she’d been a pawn of Pétain, used by the Vichy this whole damn time?

“Pétain has his agents among Grendon’s coders, it seems. We were given the new keys would would use within the hours of your arrival in France, along with your name, specific background information---for example, your father’s connections to de Gaulle---and the exact times of your transmissions. All that was left for us was to find your WT site and bring you in.”

Amelia’s vision blurred and her muscles ached from being so tense for so long. “Does General de Gaulle know…?”

“Probably not---unless he suspects, now that you’ve disappeared.”

“Why me?”

Ludwig shrugged, and for an instant---pity in those blue depths. Amelia’s jaw clenched tighter---pitied, a pawn. That’s what she was?

“All I can figure is that your father made an enemy of Pétain when he chose to follow de Gaulle instead of assisting the Vichy in France. Perhaps Pétain’s British agents informed Vichy leadership you’d be recruited by the SOE, and, well, Pétain saw his chance, and gave de Gaulle a glowing recommendation. And how could he say no to the inclusion of his dear old friend, Professor William Jones’ very own daughter?”

“Making it possible to kill two birds with one stone . . . ”

Ludwig nodded, the sympathy in his eyes unmistakable. “First, undermine the Free French by compromising their new coding system, and, second, send the daughter of traitor Jones into a situation where she is sure to be captured, tortured, even killed for spying.”

Amelia’s voice was a razor’s edge. “Notta spy.”

“As far as the Gestapo is concerned, Amelia, you are.” Ludwig shook his head. “It’s unfortunate your second message had been received by an agent of Pétain’s, who probably had been told to volunteer for that shift, and who had recognised the message’s significance, and deliberately misspelled three of your five indicator words so that it could not possible be deciphered in time for London to abort the drop…”

Amelia saw the empathy of his gaze, and though all she wanted to do was scream, cry, yell, curse at the top of her lungs, somehow, she found herself able to contain her emotions, and just, for once, listen.

“It is too bad they sent you to France at this time, Amelia; your Arthur might still be alive, and… Well, you wouldn’t have to be here with me.”

Amelia could almost see the young French woman, loyal to the boches, sitting at her station, calmly transmitting letters and hatting columns, making it look as if the transmitter had sent it that way, and then turning over the tortured message to her supervisor, explaining the agent must be under great duress because she had sent an indecipherable---and, no, she couldn’t retransmit, as there was a strong possibility she’d been captured, based on the abrupt ending, and could she please speak to Director Marks?

Amelia’s fingers twitched, knuckles flexed. God help that woman, if Amelia every managed to find her. Hell---God help Pétain.

She was a traitor by blood in the eyes of the Vichy anyway---what did she have to lose?

Hesitantly, Beilschmidt leaned forward, put her hands in his, and Amelia felt too numb to pull away.

Her hands were small, much darker than his large, pale ones. Both callused and rough, though, from years of pencil-pushing and typing.

“Yes, I believe you’re lucky, Amelia Jones: You are lucky to be alive. But I’m concerned for you wellbeing.” He swallowed.

“Your safety, Amelia.”

“How reassuring,” Amelia snorted. Though, some small part of her that she couldn’t control, was grateful nonetheless.

At least someone cared.

Ludwig’s expression was serious, gentle, and so many other things she was too tired to discern.

He’s human too.

He’s a boches. ‘Human’ is far too kind a term.

You know it’s true.

She did. 

But that didn’t matter. It really didn’t.

Finally, he spoke. “I’m tired, miss. And so are you, I can only imagine. It’s been a long, eventful night, and I think we could both use the rest.”

Amelia looked up at him. “Major, I---”

She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say.

She wouldn’t apologise. 

You were.

She’d never.

Ludwig offered a hand and Amelia quickly took it without thinking. “Amelia, please. We can continue our conversation at ten o’clock, in my office, perhaps with egg creme, bread and sausage. Yes?”

Amelia said nothing as Ludwig turned to go, and she followed.

Egg creme did sound nice though.


	11. Chapter 11

Amelia threw back her blanket, the cold morning air hitting her skin like a thousand tiny knives. The cold floorboards sent shivers up her spine as she padded to her window, swiftly pushing the blackout curtains out of her way, let some light into her room, allowing some light into her room. Below her, Tino sat with his back against the stone wall and his arms wrapped around his rifle, hugging it to his chest as if it would afford him any insulation against the cold. He looked up at her, and though every fibre of her being wanted to throw an obscene gesture his way, she simply waved, and he waved back.

Coward.

Returning to her bed, Amelia pulled off her nightgown in exchange for a silky blouse and a practical skirt that exposed scratched and bruised shins, until she pulled up heavy wool stockings, that scratched at her cuts. She glanced at her reflection in the small mirror above the washbasin and was dismayed to see how gaunt---almost skeletal---her face face seemed; her cheekbones began to protrude, her eyes shadowed and hallow from days of restlessness and anxiety. It had only been a little over a week. And, sure, ever since the war had started, Amelia had been thinning out somewhat, but this. It was insanity---out of one of those cartoons that played at the nickelodeans back home. 

She supposed it was her own fault---she was the one who’d been refusing the food. But she couldn’t bear to eat it. It was almost like an admittance of defeat. Like she was submitting to their sympathy, their pity. And she refused to. 

She wouldn’t give into her shame. 

They could take her freedom, but they couldn’t take her pride.

Whatever. It was a problem for another time. 

She quickly dragged her comb threw her hair, wincing as it snagged at the snarls, clenching her teeth as she ripped throw them. What did it matter anymore anyway? She was as good as dead. She pulled clumps of hair out of her comb, wincing at how matted and dull her hair looked in the mirror. She looked like an old doll, thrown in the mud and recovered weeks later. She looked like a corpse, like she was decomposing with every second.

Honestly, it was how she felt.

Groaning, she threw down the comb, hastily smoothed back her hair and covering it with a kerchief. 

Her eyes seemed unnaturally bright, as if she were on the verge of tears and her curls had grown out some, now sticking frumpily to her neck and forehead, like a stray poodle. 

She was a broken woman, every emotion seeming to stand out in bold relief in their depths. It was no wonder the major seemed to be able to read her thoughts. Though Amelia had always been a “what-you-see-is-what-you-get” sort of deal, she felt like glass---fragmented, fragile, and completely transparent.

Disheartened, she turned and left the room.

Major Beilschmidt looked up from the telephone as she entered his office, lightly wrapping her knuckles against the doorframe as a herald to her entrance. 

He was dressed as he’d been when they’d first met in Belley---a wool coat, dark shirt and trousers, and thick boots. All too tailored to fit in despite its neutral appearance. Strange.  
She hovered by his desk as she waited for him to hang up, pondering his reasoning for being out of uniform. If it meant anything. How it affected her if it did.

He nodded as he spoke into the receiver, grabbing Amelia’s attention. She never found German very beautiful, but the major had a talent for making it sound almost pleasant, and she listened in rapt attention, and she refused to acknowledge why she was so interested.

“Natürlich nicht. Ich war schon zu lange weg. Ich kann nur noch ein paar Tage übrig haben.” His voice had risen from its normal cadence, however slight, and Amelia’s interest was piqued further. It took a lot to make him angry---and she was curious as to what could.

Aside from her, of course.

She hadn’t forgotten so soon.

The burn on her neck still stung.

“Ich bin mir sicher, dass du es tun würdest. Aber die Wahrheit ist, es ist nicht meine Schuld. Dresdner bestand darauf, den Gefangenen ohne Begleitung zu transportieren, obwohl ich…” 

He paused to listen. What had gotten him so upset? Something about Dresdner, obviously, but...They couldn’t possibly be onto him already, could they?

“Nein. Er verweigerte. Sagte, er konnte nicht warten----” Ludwig stopped, as if interrupted. “Mein Rat wäre, Ihre Agenten die Bergdörfer zwischen Belley und Aix-les-Bains durchsuchen zulassen. Sie würde von den Maquisards abhängig sein, um Deckung zu finden, aber sie wird sich irgendwann mal bewegen müssen---sie möchte zurück ins Alliierte Territorium.” 

Again, he listened. And now, his voice sterner than Amelia’s ever really heard it, without even the smallest hint of remorse: “Sag Dresdner, er soll sein eigenes Chaos aufräumen!” He slammed the phone back down onto the receiver and gave Amelia a wry smile. “Seems no one can find the elusive American girl.”

Amelia almost smiled back.

Keyword: Almost.

“I came to ask what you need me to do today.”

Ludwig nodded, running a hand tiredly through his hair and making what seemed an honest-to-God attempt to give her a sincere smile through his irritation. “I’ve been thinking—maybe—an outing to the river.”

Amelia blinked. An outing, when the air was practically at Arctic temperatures? Between her, a captive, and him, her captor?

It was beyond ridiculous.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Certainly.” Beilschmidt reached for a hair and covered his neatly-combed hair (Amelia grimaced, remembering her combing disaster from that morning). “You can come with me or you can sit locked up in your room all day with Tolys staring up at you from below your window.”

“Some choice,” Amelia grumbled, rubbing her elbows.

“We’ll be leaving in fifteen minutes.”

Mist rose eerily from the river’s surface as the Citroën pulled to a stop on a bluff overlooking the water. Hillsides rose sleepily from the water on every side, and a carpet of trees forested the precipitous slopes, their dull winter grey blending with the blue-grey of the water below. A particularly long hill rose in front of them and stretched warily across the near-end of the liver like a large, lazy crocodile. On the lower end courched the ruins of a castle. Its walls seemed haunched and it’s tower alert.  
It was a scene straight from the fantasies Amelia read as a girl.

“Grangent Castle,” Ludwig said, nodding in the direction of the ruins. “I used to spend my summers here with my best friend and his family.”

“Gilbert?”

“Growing up, we were inseparable.”

“Looks like you still are.” She smiled faintly.

“Have you ever rowed a boat?” He pointed to the edge of the shore, where a tiny wooden skiff lay halfway in the sand, it’s back end bobbing against the river’s current.

“Used to go fishin’ with my dad every spring. Unless this is your latest plan to get rid of me, in which case: no, never. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

Ludwig chuckled against the back of his hand politely, and Amelia saw something like companionship glimmer in his eyes. It softened the edges of her dislike for him. 

“On a day like this, it would be criminal not to enjoy the river, but, in that case, I’ll take the controls.”

A few minutes later they were gliding past the castle on the hill, and Amelia watched the tower slip away as they pushed against the current of the river.

Though she had initially offered to row upon entering the skill, she was grateful the major had insisted he row the boat (“I was raised to be a gentleman, and if I act like nothing less, I know Herr Laurinaitis would walk out from behind that tree and skin me alive”), as now she gripped both sides of the flimsy craft and stole intermittent glances at the major.

He now sat facing her, his shoulders and arms hunched forward as he propelled them along the river. 

He now sat facing her, his shoulders and arms hunched forward as he propelled them along the river.

He was confusing. His methods of “interrogation”---so far, at least---had not been what her commanding officers had established as the norm, nothing of what had filled the British pamphlets. Where were the straps, rubber clubs, the metal bars? The excruciatingly long sessions and bright lights? The chains and mind-softening drugs?

None of it made sense: treating the wounds, kidnapping her from the Gestapo, and now… well, being here, on this river, as if they were old friends.

Or lovers.

Amelia recoiled. Why did she have thoughts?

“Used to catch a lot of salmon here, when I was a kid.” He didn’t even sound winded, which Amelia find quite unfair. “Shot my first rabbit around those hills.” He gestured to a wooded slope that was barely visible in the mist.

Amelia giggled, then quickly smothered it with her hand. It was just so ridiculous, like she was on an outing with some boy, not being interrogated by a bizarre German officer with bizarre methods.

And this wasn’t a date. They weren’t lovers. She needed to stop equating all of this to that.

It can’t be good for her health. 

“Gil fell out of the boat once. Nearly drowned in the current. Surprisingly, he doesn’t see the charm in the story the rest of us do.” He laughed, and then saw the expression on Amelia’s face. “Not what you were expecting, is it?”

Amelia shook her head. “Not even a bit.”

He grinned somewhat, before his expression grew stern again, softened by the sincere curiosity in his eyes. “Tell me more about your family.”

“Thought your sources already did.”

Ludwig ignored the bite in her tone. “Not everything.”

“’Course not. Well. Why should I?”

“Because I asked you to. Don’t question me.”

He was suddenly preoccupied, impatient. Amelia took a deep breath, chest thick with irritation. She needed to tread carefully with him---he’s suggested her life depended on her cooperation, hadn’t he? She had no choice here. She needed to stop forgetting this fact. However small it seemed to some---though being robbed of her agency felt like a slap to the face, a fate worse than death---it was intrinsic to her survival. 

So she forced herself to begin. “Well, there’s not a lot to tell, y’know? But, uh, during the Great War my dad was an engineer with the US Army. Uh, you probably knew that.”

Ludwig’s lips twisted. “Some of it. Go on.”

Be candid. Pretend this is a normal conversation. Pretend it’s an outing between friends. Even a date. Just be honest.  
But being honest was not as easy as it should have been, as it had always been.

But she was a traitor anyway.

“He was assigned to an engineering corps of some kind, help demolish bridges an’ all o’ that. You know, to keep the Germans outta Paris.”

Amelia hesitated.

I have nothing left to lose.

“Wherever Dad an’ his passed through, people would cry, blow kisses, through roses, even give ‘em bouquets of flowers. They’d stay with well-to-do families, an’ he’d tell me ‘bout the fumier.” Amelia smiled a bit. “Was considered a sign of wealth an’ thrift, apparently. But Dad...well, the stench was pretty overwhelming, he tells me. So, he’d complain ‘bout it. A lot.”

She laughed a bit. She could almost imagine her parents, young and in love.

“So, one night, the boys return to the house, drunk and messin’ around, y’know? So, my dad---well, it was pretty dark, an’ well, he found himself tumblin’ headfirst into a fresh pile of manure, an’ my mom---the daughter of their current host---saw, an’ she couldn’t stop laughin’, called him ‘Monsieur Fumier’ for days. Dad swore her laugh was the prettiest in all the world.”

’Til I heard yours, he was always so quick to say. But that felt too personal to share with just about anybody ---let alone to a Nazi.

She didn’t believe it anyway---it was loud, obnoxious, and she snorted like a pig the whole time.

It didn’t bother her, but she didn’t want to lie to herself about it either.

“So, when Dad was transferred, he an’ Mom agreed to write, an’ when the war ended, they got married.” She shrugged. “Like I said---not much to tell.”

“Your mother had never left France, then?”

Amelia nodded. “Not ’til years later, when Dad found work at a university in Massachusetts. She mainly agreed so she could so she could meet his family though, especially since her parents passed on…”

Amelia fell awkwardly silent, thinking of the grandparents she hardly knew.

Major Beilschmidt looked at her intently, and she saw a curious stirring of emotion in his eyes. After several beats of silence, Amelia couldn’t help but wonder if the mention of “family” had alienated him?

Suddenly the oppressive truth of her captivity weighing down her shoulders.

Amelia looked away. “I’m sorry, Major Beilschmidt. I don’t wanna bore you with my stories.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Bore me?”

“’S what I said.”

Amelia tentatively dipped her fingers in the cold river and immediately recoiled. It was freezing, as she had expected.

“Tell me about your family in America.”

Surprised, she turned from the dull grey water, and he smiled faintly---almost sheepishly---back at her. “They seems to be important. To your mother, at least.”

“They are,” she muttered, voice barely above the rushing water. She narrowed her eyes at him---not in scrutiny, judgement. Warily. Studying his face for a hint, even the barest trace of scorn or ridicule. Nothing. Just polite interest, curiosity. Subtle amusement. 

She sighed. Her voice was hesitant when she continued, slipping back into English as a sort of barrier. An ineffective one, still, but a barrier all the same. “Well, most of ‘em are located on the west coast, in Oregon and California, y’know?”

He leaned forward a little, almost like he was trying to hear her better. As if she was giving him the secret to life. 

She leaned back reflexively and he did as well. “Excuse me,” they muttered in tandem, and Amelia was pretty sure she saw the major flush a bright red sort of colour, his neck and cheeks growing even pinker than their usual shade.

He cleared his throat. She hummed nervously, twiddling with her thumbs, gaze stubbornly locked on her feet. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she half-grumbled, feeling the heat splotching on her neck. 

He shook his head, palm facing toward her. “No, no. You have no need to apologise.”

“‘Scuse me for bein’ polite.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s nothin’. You’re forgiven.” She smiled sardonically. “See? That’s how you accept an apology.”

“Oh, well---my apologies, Miss Jones.” 

“Thank you.”

Another uncomfortable, stuffy silence where Amelia became starkly aware that this boat was not big enough and there was nobody else around.

Not that she feared for her life. Major Beilschmidt had more than proven he didn’t seem to a have a mind for killing---well, not her at least. But there was no escape, was there?

Again, Ludwig cleared his throat. “We’re...we’re getting off topic, miss.”

Amelia glanced up at him. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

Amelia grinned. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He flashed her delighted smile. “Your family lives in the west? In California and Oregon?”

“Right.” Amelia began picking at the peeled skin on her thumb. “Dad didn’t have a lot, grown’ up as a farmboy an’ all. But he was ambitious as anyone---well, maybe twice it, actually. A real patriot, lotsa big dreams, especially for someone in his situation. Worked twice as hard as anybody else to get into school, going above and beyond in the military, got a masters, moved out to Boston, before movin’ back to France, marryin’ my mom...y’know, alla that jazz.”

She smiled tightly. “Told Mom all ‘bout his childhood, an’, well, she was desperate to visit a country that to her only really existed in stories, you know…”

Ludwig hadn’t even batted an eyes. His brow was furrowed with concentration. Again, her dislike for him eroded a bit more. It was almost touching, how intently and sincerely he listened. Though far from the suffragette her mother and many of her aunts and uncles had been, she had to admit: most men---especially someone of the major’s rank and status---especially in his position over her---didn’t seem to have much patience in listening to her.

She may have been young, but she wasn’t a child. She was plenty intelligent. Plenty knowledgeable. And, well, so far the major had treated her that way, and she wasn’t sure if it would be strange to thank him or not. 

Thank all of her captors, really. For treating her with basic respect and dignity---like she was an equal to them, almost.

“The soldiers had told Mom how beautiful it is back home…”

“Is it?” There was a strange light in his eyes.

“It is.” Amelia couldn’t help the swell of pride in her voice---as if she’d carved the landscape with her own two hands. “It’s gorgeous, got any landscape you could ask for.”

“You’ve spent most of your life in Boston?”

“That’s right.”

“Did your family ever miss France?”

Amelia nodded as she watched a heron fly low over the surface of the river. “Oh, definitely, ‘course. Mom an’ I---we were born there, y’know? Practically shaped my life; I’d’ve been a different person without it. But after my mom’s parents died, well….” Amelia stopped. Another memory too precious to share---not even to prolong her life.

“And you and Arthur?” Beilschmidt prompted. “Were you planning to be married in the US?”

“Yeah, yeah---Arthur’s family’s got a lotta money, y’know, and we both agreed it’d be easier to fly his parents---an’, uh, his brothers, ‘course---over than, uh, my entire family, who aren’t, y’know, exactly accustomed to the likes in London…” 

There was a strange look in Ludwig’s eyes; suspicious, she supposed, though she wasn’t sure why. “Is that right?”

“Like I said.”

“Go on.”

Amelia pursed her lips thoughtfully. “So, we were gonna get, well, uh...Boston, y’know, and then we were gonna travel.”

“Travel where?”

“Everywhere. Y’know, Brazil, China, Russia---his mom would always say we both are---were---too adventurous for our own good.” Amelia felt her emotions rising to the surface, dangerously close to boiling over. “Don’t you have anythin’ better to do than torture me with memories? Don’t you realise what you’ve taken from me? I loved Arthur more than my own life---I would’ve gladly taken his place! He was my other half---my better half! The bravest, smartest, kindest man the world’s ever known!” She sucked in her cheeks, glaring. “He was twice the man you could ever be, three times---four---you are now, an’---you took him from me, from everyone!”

Ludwig said nothing; his expression betrayed no emotions.

Again: completely unfair.

Amelia curled her lip. “That’s somethin’ a man like you’ll never understand.”

“Maybe not.” He seemed unruffled by her remarks. “But I want to hear about it anyway, Amelia.”

“Why?”

“It intrigues me. You intrigue me---you and your life. Even those ‘boring’ stories. Sometimes I wonder…” He hesitated, coughing lightly into his hand.

“What d’you wonder, Major?” Amelia croaked.

“Well, without all...this, I suppose,” (he gestured both at everything and at nothing at the same times), “maybe you and I could’ve been friends.”

Amelia’s expression twisted.

“Maybe you and Arthur would’ve gotten married, moved to London---and I could have visited you two there from time to time, formed a lifelong friendship, I suppose…”

“Instead, you killed him.”

Ludwig turned from her, impassive. “Such is war.”

Amelia frowned, her strength suddenly gone, sapped from her outburst. “And how did you know Arthur? Did’ya spend time with him in cafés? Deceive him, like you did to me? Make him believe you were a Frenchman, loyal to the Résistance, so you could infiltrate his organisation?”

Ludwig shook his head. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

“How’d’ya know him then, huh?”

Major Beilschmidt dug in with the paddles, turning the boat back to with the current to head back the direction they’d come. “This isn’t the right time to tell, Amelia.”

“Well, why in the hell not? I’ve been straight with you—gainst my better judgement, by the way—an’ I’ve answered all your questions, haven’t I?”

“Yes...because I required it.” Ludwig smiled forlornly. “When you tell me your thoughts because you want to, Amelia---then will be the right time. Then I will confide in you.”

Ludwig drummed his fingers against his desk, jaw twitching. “I understand it’s out of my jurisdiction. But it affects my district, my security, and the security of my men. This is the Résistance we’re talking about---not some Luftwaffe deserter.”

Only half of him comprehended the voice on the other side of the line as he strained to keep his patience, keep his emotions in check.

“Yes. The woman is connected to the Résistance. And yes, I do think an old French woman's whereabouts is reason enough to tie up the three men each day for as long as it takes.”

He grimaced at the receiver, holding it away from his ear as the voice on the other end rose in volume.

“You need to calm down, Sir. Remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure.” He hesitated. “Yes, I will assume complete responsibility for the surveillance. I only ask that you lend me the manpower until we detain the caretaker. Someone is caring for that house, and he’ll help us track down the owner. Sir.”

Ludwig hung up the phone and paused with his hand on the receiver as he sorted through the conversation. Glanced out the window.

Gil’s still on guard duty. He decided, rather than to hole up in his office and fret---though, at his point, it was practically his only real talent---to give him some much-needed company.

Outside, Gilbert lounged against the frozen garden wall, taking long drags of his cigarette to ward off the cold. 

But, Ludwig supposed, trench life had taught Gilbert well. Nothing seemed to phase him after the war. The exact opposite of Tolys: the once brasher of the twins in so many ways, he’d become something of trembler, especially when stressed, and he tended to cry out of frustration much too often. Gilbert tended to drink to numb his frustrations, especially after his fiancée left....

“Any problems?”

Gilbert shook his head. “Rapunzel seems to content to remain in her tower tonight. Though, from the tension I felt between the two of you when you got back---fifty percent chance she’ll smother you in your sleep, fifty percent chance she----”

Ludwig’s face felt like it might melt off from the heat radiation from his cheeks. “That’s enough, Gilbert: I’ll be vigilant.”

Gilbert cackled, spinning on his heel to face Ludwig. “You’re too cute, Ludva---like a little puppy.” He clapped him hard on the back with his free hand.

“Thanks, Mutti.” But he was chuckling as well.

Gilbert suddenly went silent, his voice low and severe in tone. “Seriously, Ludwig. You’re taking a pretty hefty risk. Have you ever thought about what might happen if the Gestapo decides to check up on your activities? What if they’ve managed to intercept the message the little vixen sent last night?”

“I’ve thought about that.” Ludwig leaned on the stone wall next to him. “And it’s a risk I have to take---for the moment, anyway. You know that.”

Gilbert inhaled sharply. “That’s the thing---I don’t, Lud. I really don’t.”

“I’ve explained my---”

“You did, I know. And I don’t care; I told you I’m going to help you. I’m not backing out now. None of us are.” He sighed. “So...you haven’t decided yet?”

Ludwig sighed, leaning his forehead to pinch the bridge of his nose. “She’s afraid of me. Which is understandable, considering her position. But...she’s determined to keep me at a distance---”

“Which is also understandable, I suppose. But like I said, you’re like a puppy.”

Ludwig shook his head. “Of course---I’d worry for her mental stability if she didn’t.”

“Personally, I worry about it anyway---”

“Stop projecting, Gil---”

“Hey.”

“And interrupting.”

Gilbert took another drag. “Fine.”

“Well, she shares her memories---barely. She refuses to trust me, which, again, I understand, given her situation, but---” He ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose there’s no come back from being the Nazi officer holding her captive while she grieves, is there?”

The two chuckled, albeit, slightly bitter.

“But, really, is she worth the risk? I mean, as a woman, she is pretty incredible---she reminds me of Böszi---” Another bitter chuckle and Ludwig prepared himself for a long rant on something like the selfishness of women or whatever else popped into his broken mind--- “but is she really worth the risk to your family? You promised An---”

“I know, I know what I promised, but.” He sighed, looked into the misty distance. “She just might be, Gilbert.”

“Is she who you thought she’d be?”

“...Yes.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey. This update took entirely too long and is entirely unfair to the three (3) people who are actually reading this story. But, good news—I've finished writing the entire thing, which is what took me so long to do, so updates should be more frequent—especially since soon I won't have some time restraints which have been bogging me down. I'm hoping to get a few more chapters (at least ten) by the end of winter holidays, so hopefully that'll happen. We'll have to see.
> 
> As usual, unbeta'd, unedited. I'll go back and do all that once I'm done posting. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience.

Night came and went as it usually did for Amelia—blindingly black and stubbornly slow. And, to make matters worse, her new room hadn't been properly fitted with electricity yet, so doing anything that required eyesight was completely out of the question. It was smaller and creakier, and farther back in the villa, reached through a tight staircase that must've been a pretty effective barrier in the times of swords and knights. The windows were smaller, too. Probably used as arrow slits once upon a time.

The major had tried his best to explain it was nothing personal—wasn't even a punishment. Just a safety measure, in case any ‘unexpected guests’ stopped by. “They wouldn't look up here,” he'd said, helping her carrying some clothing and other such necessities. He looked more like he was trying to convince himself than anything, not that Amelia pointed that out. He was clearly stressed, and she had in no small part been the cause of it. And though she knew she shouldn't, she still felt guilty for it. Plus, he was helping her carry her ‘luggage’ up the stairs when he really didn't have to (he “wanted to,” apparently) and, well, she was raised to have some manners. Surprisingly enough. So she let him, and she also said “Thank you,” even after all the events that had taken place the night before.

So, there she sat, confined to her new bed's comfort, with too many thoughts and not enough distractions from them. When she looked out the window, as she always did, she heard a few coughs and saw the glow of a cigarette. Tino, she was pretty sure.

At first she thought about saying ‘Hi,’ maybe making some polite conversation. She was too tired, too agitated and too excited, to sleep. Conversation might help; but she couldn't force her voice above a whisper. And that was that.

She was grateful for the sun to come up, it's needless to say—finally breaking through the opaque veil of doom and gloom which seemed to be a permanent background to her imprisonment. And even though her eyes strung from lack of sleep (and, okay, maybe some tears) and this would be just another Arthur-less, boches-filled day...well, at least now the sunlight would allow her to focus on something outside of the fact that Arthur was dead and her father had no idea where she was—or if she was even alive.

Maybe Major Beilschmidt could let her send him some sort of letter—just enough to say, I'm alive, I'm fine—if she asked nicely enough, maybe promised to be on her best behavior. Did everything he asked and all that. Or if she could find the Résistance, they may be able to pass something through for her.

Or send her home.

(Amelia ignored the fact that going home hadn't been her first thought—hey, she was sleep-deprived.)

Amelia pinned her hair away from her face and pat down the wrinkles on her shirt. She didn't look like herself. She really didn't.

The neckline of her blouse was much lower than she'd prefer, and was cut for a woman with a much more comely shape than herself—the sort with a narrow waist and round hips—and the wool skirt was itchy and the shoes, though fashionable (and she thought the labels looked Italian), they were a tad too small for her feet, narrow around the toes, the heels much higher than she'd generally prefer. When she walked, she stumbled like a baby deer, and her knees wobbled and shins strained.

And then—well, she was thin, wane. She looked sickly and pallid—her freckles were almost completely faded, her hair had darkened and had gone limp, and her tan was gone, revealing her marshmallow-fluff skin. Her cheeks are gaunt, eyes dark and bloodshot and dull—her muscles had lost their definition. Her arms were starting to look like broomsticks—as her mother would say.

For the first time in her life, she could see hints of her ribcage, even without stretching her arms.

Her father had once told her that grief was the most deadly sort of illness, and time was the only real cure.

She wouldn't be able to start that time, until she was safe and sound, far from Major Beilschmidt and Germany and everything else.

In the kitchen Amelia chose a chair next to Gilbert, scooting out, away from the table. The distance was entirely necessary.

Tolys and Tino argued on the other end of the table in—well, it must not have been German, but then Amelia wasn't sure what it was, aside from it being surprisingly melodic. The entire table had rattled when Tino had slammed his fist for emphasis; Tolys had clawed at his long, thin face in what was apparently exasperation; and Gilbert ate his breakfast—coffee and bread—like all of this was nothing to be concerned about.

“Politics,” Gilbert muttered. He'd must've seen the look on her face when she'd sat down.

“Ah,” was all she said back. She didn't need to hear anymore. Even just the thought of discussing German politics—Nazi politics—sent a knife through her stomach.

She sipped her water. Tolys grumbled about something—irritable and tired, arms folded over his chest. Tino replied, somewhat chirpily—something about johtaja, and Tolys snorted back. Something about Göring. That had been enough for her. She no longer felt quite so hungry.

She decided to distract herself from the boches' argument with her surroundings. Like the small window over the leaky faucet, and it's delicate little lilac curtains and the scuff marks on the aging stone floor around the legs of the flimsy wooden chairs that creaked with every movement. The smell of coffee by-far over-powered the scent of must—not quite the lingering cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap bread, store-bought and still made from government rations. It was so cold, they're kitchen may as well have been an ice box.

Still—the paneled wall was pretty, and the stone stove was something from her childhood memories come to life. All of the plates—though chipped—had pretty little painting on them in washed out pastels. They looked authentically Chinese.

Gilbert's plate had little yellow and blue songbirds on it, surrounded by a wreath of spring leaves and fresh cherry blossoms. It was faded far beyond what the artist intended, but it was still gorgeous. Something her mother would've loved.

Next to it—black leather gloves and a gun, still neatly tucked into its holster. Amelia's throat felt a little tight: that same gun had been dug into her neck, pinching the soft skin hard enough that it had broken it. She had almost been killed—a bullet had grazed past her ear and the pop! of its firing had left her ears ringing.

The kitchen lo longer felt quite so cheery. The portable radio was low, but she knew it just had to be the German national news station. It relayed the highlights from a recent speech. Something about the success of the bombings in London. That hurt to hear.

These men—their uniforms and all they represented—were German. Dark and imposing, designed to intimidate and threaten her. They all had their weapons on them—and Tino's sniper rifle gleamed where it was propped against the wall, less than five feet away from her, and she could see the tally marks scratched onto its barrel. One for each kill. There were lots of them. Lots and lots. Too many for Amelia to really count.

Even if she could get away, they'd find her again. Even if it meant through Tino's scope, perched on the château rooftop. Like Major Beilschmidt had said—she was a valuable prisoner, but her life was ultimately in their (his) hands.

Amelia eyed Gilbert's side-arm, his Luger. She was fast—she knew she was, and the gun was less than an arm's length away from her. If she was quick about it, there wouldn't be time for him to stop her—she could turn it on them. They were in close enough quarters that she knew it would be almost impossible to miss, and that a bullet wound could be incapacitating, even lethal.

She knew where the radio set was, and she could send a message. But would anyone listen? Would Amelia have much of a choice?

Well—she could run. Get to the mountains and track down Francis. Hopefully he'd honour Arthur's memory enough to help her find a way home, or even just somewhere safe until the war was over.

She felt eyes on her.

“Something on your mind, princess?”

Amelia's ears burned. “Where's Major Beilschmidt?”

Tino snickered. When she glared up at him, he just smiled back innocently. Not a trace of malice on his face. Just good-spirited fun.

“Lyon.” Gilbert downed the last of his coffee and pushed back his chair. “Business. It's none of your concern, Fräulein.”

Amelia pursed her lips as she tried to think of a comeback, but her hands were tied. He was right, after all. The major's whereabouts should be none of her concern—and they weren't. So she swallowed down all of her Beilschmidt-related questions, except for—“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“This afternoon, probably.”

“Oh.”

The tension was shattered by Tolys bursting out into deep laughter and Tino lobbed a small chunk of bread at his cheek. His grin was ear to ear. Perhaps they were friends, which—admittedly—was a strange thought to Amelia. Boches having friends (or any emotions at all, really).

She gripped her knees. They killed Arthur. You're a prisoner. They were ready to shoot you the other night.

They're not your friends. This isn't a vacation.

“Mind if I take a walk?” Amelia burst out, before she could really think. “By the river?”

Gilbert turned to look at her. “Mind if I join you?”

Amelia grimaced. “Since when have you asked for permission?”

Gilbert smirked at her. “I am nothing if not a gentleman, mademoiselle. And I'd hate for you to fall in—the little Rotzlöffel would kill me.”

(Tolys muttered something like, “God, I wish. Tino snorted. Gilbert shot him a glare.)

It took Amelia a moment to put together that Rotzlöffel must've been in reference to the major somehow.

“I don't really have a choice, do I?” Amelia asked wryly, rubbing her hands together.

“You do not.” Gilbert briefly flashed her his teeth in more of a snarl than a smile. Like he was going to eat her alive.

Amelia's stomach flopped. “Well, jus' don't trail after me or somethin'. Tolys does that and I hate it.”

Tolys greyed a bit as Tino smirked at him.

“Oh,” she added as an afterthought. “An' no snarking. Or someone will fall into the river, an' it's not gonna be me.”

Gilbert chuckled. “On my honour, milady.”

Gilbert turned out to be an interesting companion—once she got over the fact he was there to keep her from escaping, and could and would shoot her if she made a run for it. He had lots of stories to tell from his long—well, longer than hers—life, all full of strange little twists and turns. Full of little details that only a German could really understand, but she still have it her best effort.

He was a noble—a Junker, thanks to some kingly Hohenzollern blood on his father's side, born and raised in the swampy marshes and bogs of East Prussia, along the coast of the Baltic Sea, with a large property and a number of servants to care for their stately mansion. The Beilschmidts were among them, and lived on their fief as agricultural workers that rented his father's lands. He died in an incursion—a communist, or maybe a dispute, along with his wife, in a house fire—and apparently Frau Laurinaitis had felt so badly for allowing such a terrible thing to happen on her property, that they took in their orphaned son.

“‘Divine intervention’ is what my mother had called it. To me, I thought it was more like—divine annoyance. That boy followed me closer than my own damn shadow did; more than Tolys did.” Gilbert laughed. “And Tolys and I shared a room.”

Amelia couldn't help her grin. It sounded just too cute—a little blond Major Beilschmidt following Gilbert around, complete awe-struck by his new older brother. Her chest pages with sympathy, compassion.

“But he did eventually grow on me, when he became old enough to talk to me. Pretty quick, too. I taught Ludva everything I knew—fishing, hunting, skiing, how to shoot. We drank together, laughed together. When I ent to boarding school in Berlin, he asked my mother when I'd be coming home every day, and always got really depressed when the answer was too far off for his liking.”

Amelia chuckled lightly. Cute.

“When I was sent to the East for the Great War, he cried harder than anybody else did, and Mother had waited by the window every day for Tolys and I to come back.” He grinned, all toothy and crooked. “There's no one who can even compare to my friend Ludwig. I would do anything but for that boy, Fräulein. Anything.”

“You make him sound like a good person,” Amelia said, before she could stop herself. She cringed inwardly at herself. Damn her big mouth.

“The best.” Gilbert narrowed his eyes a bit at her—not angrily, just curiously. Like she was a venomous snake he wished to study at a distance, but not necessarily hurt in any way. “I know—to you—he's the enemy. A monster. It's the side of him you see, but—well, to me, that couldn't be farther from the Ludva I know.”

“He killed my fiancé, Lieutenant,” Amelia sniffed, defensive now. “An' probably lots more, too. An' now he holds me hostage an's just refusing to let me go, or even tell me what he plans on doin' with me. What other side to him is there?”

Ludva. The boy who followed Gilbert around and hold onto his every word; missed him every day when he was at boarding school; and cried for him when he went to war.

But Ludva was a child—not the infamous bloodhound of a major. Ludva was long dead, for all Amelia knew. Killed long ago by the German war machine.

“You came to France to help your friends kill us.” Gilbert shrugged on shoulder. “Not too different.”

“Germany is the aggressor.” Amelia frowned. “You're invadin', we defendin'. An' I don't think Arthur woulda…”

Gilbert scowled. “Do you think Ludwig enjoys this—just loves killing? That—that he gets any pleasure from chasing down maquisards and slippery little Allies?”

“Well, I—”

“Let me finish.” It was a command—there was no room for arguing in his tone. “He doesn't hate you Amelia. Or Arthur or any of the Résistance fighters. Or the British or the Americans. I don't even think ‘hate’ is in his vocabulary.”

Gilbert stuffed his hands in his pockets, glowering into the light sheet of snow. Birds chirped brightly in tall pine trees which smelled like Christmas, and it was a surprisingly warm day, with a breeze coming from the south and a cloudless sky. Even with the ice crunching under Amelia's boots. The river gurgled and crashed nearby.

Gilbert sighed. “Do you know where he learned English?”

Amelia shook her head. “Why would he tell me that?”

She was the enemy, after all. Here to help kill other Germans, as Gilbert had said.

“Oxford. When he was a tensgerz he didn't three years in London after a year with Tolys at the Universität zu Berlin. He wanted me to come with him—and I didn't. Worst decision I've ever made. He studied medicine and graduated cum laude. And I studied what I was told to study and got a job with the police.”

“I thought you're a spy or somethin'.”

“Counter-intelligence in the East, yes. ’Bout the only sort of job you can get ’round here, looking like me and Tolys.” Gilbert laughed without humour. “I chose the military and I lost—a lot. I had a choice and I made the wrong one. Ludwig didn't—have a choice.”

Amelia said nothing. It's not like she knew the right thing to say anyway.

Gilbert stopped walking, and turned to face her. “He saved your life, Amelia—and if you could get past your own self-pity for even a second you would see that. And while you sit up in your ivory tower, plotting got next little escape, he's planning on hiding you from the Gestapo until the war ends. That's what he wants from you. That's it.”

Amelia gaped up at him, tongue heavy and dry.

“Don't you realize what he's risked for you?” the lieutenant hissed. “Traitors ate executed. So are their families. While you'll probably survive the war, he may not. And it would he because he helped you.”

***

Major Ludwig Beilschmidt was tired. His entire body ached from fatigue and—God—if he couldn't use a drink right about then, in the comfort of his own home, his dog curled into his legs. He'd even settle for a long hot shower, where he could just think. Sort out his thoughts: everything that happened yesterday, and how much—how unhealthily—his self-loathing was really beginning to mount.

Tolys's offers of food were of little comfort and, anyway, just because Ludwig's duties in Belley were done, didn't mean he had finished working.

“Sorry. I won't tell you to rest because I know you won't listen, but I'm sorry.” Tolys pat Ludwig's back sympathetically. “I'll just go Tino you need to use the line now.”

Ludwig nodded.

“It's just his wife, I think, so it's not urgent.” But that just made Ludwig feel worse.

He should call home, too. Probably.

That was going to have to be later though. In the evening, maybe. Because now, when he dialed his phone, it was for Lieutenant Meer in Belley, for a message relayed by Ludwig's agents who had managed to detain a caretaker of some sort of ‘abandoned’ cottage outside of Paris somewhere.

“Do we know what happened to the residents?” Ludwig shuffled through his files on all he had on the elusive Bruno. It was slim, but perhaps the maquisard had a connection, and if he did have one, well…

“The prisoner refuses to talk, except to say he tends the grounds and has no knowledge whatsoever—” The disbelief in Meer's tone was palpable—“and Paris wants to know what you've done with him. Says there's no reason to hold him.”

Meet snorted. “This is why they lost, Major, I'm telling you. They're incompetence is just astounding.”

Ludwig chuckled weakly as he rubbed through the ache in his temples. “Tell them to bring him here, to the villa. Tomorrow, if possible.” He sighed. “I'll take care of him.”

Leave it to France to ruin his plans.

“Very well.” Meet hesitated. “And when will you be returning?”

“Soon, I think. Why? Is everything okay in Belley?”

“Yes, yes, of course. It's just…” Meer sighed impatiently, and Ludwig just knew he'd be pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bruno's been causing trouble again. Disabled three brand new Panzers. And two of the guards with ’em.”

“Any of mine?”

“God, no, Major—we'd've told you immediately, if that was the case. Neumann was a bit banged up, but Doc says he'll be back in commission pretty quick.”

Ludwig sucked in his cheeks. “If he manages that before I get back, tell him I've given him the week off. I can only imagine the experience was quite...stressful for him.”

“That's one way of putting it. Of course, Major.”

Ludwig hung up, fuming. Neumann was only twenty, and if anything worse had happened to him—well, Bruno would have a lot coming for him, that was for damn sure.

In his bedroom, he had the privacy to hash out his thoughts alone, without judgement or interruption or invasive, probing questions—to pace around his bed and curse out everyone and everything, though it was mostly himself. To fling himself dramatically onto his bed, as he often did when he was younger, and just be a whole mess.

Instead snowflakes falling outside of his window as he went to shut it caught his attention. And laughter too: Running up the hill, away from the river, Amelia bunched up her skirt to race Gilbert back to the villa, stumbling often and laughing when she did. Even from his vantage point, he could see her big, goofy smile which took up two-thirds of her face easily and her obnoxiously loud belly laughs seemed to reverberate around him. She shoved Gilbert's outstretched hand away as she stood back up and continued her race, spirits unbroken, even as she promptly slipped again.

The snow picked up and Ludwig shut the window on Amelia's laughter. And then shut the curtains. Just watching would be strange—creepy—and he had things to think about. To decide on.

He collapsed onto the side of his bed, head in hands. The springs whined under the sudden weight.

What would Margherita say, if she were here with him—if she were able to talk to him? Aside from her telling him that he needs to eat—when was the last time he had a proper meal? Last night? No wonder he looked so thin, and then she'd pinch his sides. Oh, and he's tired? He should sleep if he's tired—there, she'll even let him hold her while he slept, if that would help.

Margherita had been reasonable like that.

But he couldn't sleep. Not now. He had to think. Rest would just have to wait.

He had made his decision, for the most part. Amelia Lucille Jones, that strange, absurdly stubborn American spy—she had been important to Arthur. And he still owed Arthur.

Was she worth the risk? That's what he really wanted to ask Margherita. Was this whole ordeal worth the repercussions of detention and execution? She had known Arthur Kirkland better than just about anybody, his wife had. She would have known right away, the depths of Amelia Jones's commitment to him. She had been good with that sort of thing.

But Ludwig owed it to Arthur—for killing him and for everything else. He owed Arthur a lot. And Amelia seemed to care about him—to love him.

She was a good person.

All of this was enough for Ludwig.

Margherita would have probably agreed. At least, he liked to think she would. The thought of an innocent person getting hurt, tortured, killed, would've broken her heart. Especially after what had happened to Antonio.

And what had happened to her.

He wished he could tell her that he loved her. He loved her so, so much.

He'd been thinking of his wife a lot these days: holding his shoulders and running her long, dexterous fingers through his hair. Of course, he always tried to keep her presence in mind during interrogations—including every session with Amelia Jones. It helped him stay calm, keep him on track, imaging her hovering over his shoulder as he worked, like she so often once had. Besides, he could never hurt anyone with Margherita looking on. He didn't want to disappoint her.

His door swung open and Ludwig cursed.

“Tolys said you'd be up here.” Gilbert shut and locked the door behind him. “Well, in your office. But I figured you'd be up here.”

“I've made up my mind, Gilbert.” Ludwig stood up to face his eldest brother properly.

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. Snow still clung to his hair and coat; his face was still pink from the cold. “At your service.”

Ludwig swiped a letter from his bedside table, next to a framed photograph of his parents—well, Herr and Frau Laurinaitis—which had already been sealed and addressed in neat print by Ludwig's own hand. Inside was a single sheet of folded paper written on his own letterhead.

“Your orders, in case you're questioned: keep them on you at all times. Most likely you won't need it until you get to Germany anyway, but—”

Gilbert slid the envelope into his coat pocket, over his chest. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Should I—or _you_—tell her?”

The major shook his head. “It's better we not. I'll be headed back to Belley tomorrow evening. It seems Bonnefoy has been harassing the garrison, and Meer is pretty stressed out over it; he's young and I'd hate to see him fail.”

Gilbert folded his arms. “No offense, Ludwig, but—you're sure she's worth it?”

Beilschmidt returned his gaze. “I believe she is.”

***

Playing in white powdery fields of nothing but snow for as far as the eye could see was interrupted by a tremendous pounding that rattled the entirety of the room. Suddenly Ludwig was next to Amelia, a coat folded over his arm, pulling her out of bed, a tall, dark, shadowy mass in his full uniform and with so little light.

He thrust the coat into her arms. It was hers.

“Get up. You have to leave. Now.”

Amelia stumbled as she pushed her arms into the coat's sleeves. “Dres—”

“Maybe. I don't know.” Ludwig continued handing her articles of clothing, more panicked than she'd ever seen him. Even after her stunt with the radio set. “Grab your things. And quickly.”

As soon as Amelia pulled on her boots, Ludwig firmly grasped her elbow and marched her towards the backstairs. Amelia stumbled alongside him, still groggy from sleep and disoriented in the dim. Though her heart thrummed with an apparent urgency, she still couldn't entirely convince herself this wasn't some sort of strange nightmare.

It all sure felt like a dream as they passed through the empty kitchen, through the untouched servants' quarters, and through a narrow, creaky door she had never seen before.

Outside she was assaulted by the crisp morning hair, like a wave of Arctic water and suddenly a bile seized up in Amelia's throat. Her eyes widened. “Oh, _God_—”

She covered her mouth with her hands and swallowed her puke back down, burning like acid as it went. Catching her throat on fire. Her knees knocked into each other.

“Careful, Miss Jones.” Ludwig helped her into the Citroën, where Tolys sat behind the wheel as the engine idled. He white knuckled the wheel and his eyes darted anxiously. Tino and Gilbert arrived close behind them, weapons hastily swung over their shoulders, buttoning their dark uniform tunics.

Ludwig shut the door. Tino slid into the passenger seat in front of her, fitting his cap onto his head. He released the safety on his gun and grinned at Amelia. “Just in case.”

Gilbert and Ludwig whispered to each other. Ludwig laughed before Gilbert waved and jogged around the back of the car to climb in next to Amelia.

Ludwig turned to watch Amelia: whatever he was feeling, the darkness didn't allow his face to betray it.

She felt a sudden twinge of...something. Regret? Fear? Whatever it easy Amelia had realized, again, the major had goodness in him. She pressed her fingers against the freezing window and looked up at him. _Thank you._

She hoped he was good at lip-reading.

The Citroën seemed to yank itself forward as Tolys put it into gear and stepped on the gas. He turned a tight corner into some back road Amelia had ever noticed.

The major disappeared behind the high stone wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rotzlöffel translates literally to 'snot-spoon' and is comparable to 'brat.'


	13. Chapter 13

Ludwig had just gotten off the phone with Lieutenant Meer, thanking him for the heads-up that Captain Bernard Dresdner had showed up at the château for a “visit” that morning—and that, seeing as the lieutenant didn't have much of a choice, with the captain all worked into a lather when he had realized Ludwig's absence, he'd given him the major's address—Dresdner would waste no time, it appeared, in driving up—desperate to catch Ludwig off of his guard—when the Devil himself had pulled up in the courtyard in a new Renault, two of his aides on his flanks, in full uniform.

Clearly, it was more than just a friendly visit. 

Ludwig was there to answer the door as soon as he heard the knock. He'd been waiting for it in the parlour, relaxed in his chair. Despite the circumstances. 

Dresdner marched right past him, hardly allowing Ludwig to finish saying his welcomes, straight into the foyer. He removed his gloves and glanced casually up the stairs. “I've decided to stop by and see how the search is proceeding.”

His announcement had, of course, come without promoting. He didn't allow Ludwig the time _to _prompt it in the first place.

“Curious, considering Ains is outside of your district.”

Dresdner smiled tightly. “Tend to your own business, friend.”

“Ah, but Ains _is _my business, as designated by the Führer.” Ludwig shrugged casually. “But you are right: daylight is over an hour away, and I need some rest before the day begins. And _you _have a search to conduct. So, perhaps a coffee for the road before you show yourself out?”

“I'm interested in seeing your villa.”

“You want to search it, you mean.”

“No, no. Of course not, Beilschmidt.” Dresdner didn't look amused as he surveyed the place, eyes roving around the room, scrutinizing it's contents. “But I've yet to see the beautiful home the Laurinaitis family has so graciously donated to the Reich. Yet to be privileged enough to join the other officers here for the weekend, I suppose.”

“That's because you haven't been invited.”

Dresdner scowled. “It seems you're out of sorts this morning, Major. I'm here out of a courtesy and I expect to be treated with a certain amount of respect.”

“Oh, of course. By all means.” Ludwig bowed stiffly at his waist. “I'll just let Major Niemen know one of his officers is making a social call to my villa, and that he may contact you here if he needs you.”

Dresdner's eyes darkened. “He knows I'm here to search for the American.”

“And that brings you here—how?”

“I have reason to believe you knew of her disappearance.”

“Of course I knew,” Ludwig snapped, glaring. “I've been trying to recover her. Her disappearance is as much an embarrassment to me as as it is to you.”

Ludwig straightened, a corner of his mouth turned up. “Did you _actually _believe I would have helped her escape and then hid her here, of all places?”

Dresdner grimaced. One of his aides let a burst of air rush out of his mouth; the other shuffled his feet from side to side. 

“You're wasting precious time, Dresdner—yours and mine.” Ludwig deepened his glare. “You are meddling in my affairs and insinuating traitorous activity, and I resent both.”

Dresdner said nothing. 

“If you _must _search the villa to see if I have a _spy _hidden in some musty old closet, I would suggest you get started.” Ludwig gestured up the staircase with a grand sweep of his arm. “And feel free to take all the time you need, because as soon as you're finished, I'm going to be filing a report to your superiors, and I want to accumulate as much evidence on your insubordination as I possibly can. Because, see, I don't believe Niemen knows either your plans or your whereabouts this beautiful morning.”

Dresdner's complexion turned an unpleasant shade of purple. “You stand on dangerous ground, Major. _I resent _your words and your attitude. You're both obstructing an investigation vital to the Reich and hurling your own unfair accusations, and I won't let either pass.”

He turned for the door. “I can't prove you helped her escape, Beilschmidt—not yet. But I plan to do an extensive investigation of my own...”

“You might want to find the girl first, and then she can fill out those details for you.” Ludwig turned his back on the captain. “I wish you luck.”

He began to climb up the stairs.

“This isn't the end, Major Beilschmidt. Be advised: I will find out the truth. I always do.”

His words went ignored as Ludwig walked down the hall, back to the privacy of his bedroom. 


	14. Chapter 14

_ Schönau im Schwarzwald, Lörrach, Baden-Würtemberg, Germany _

In the ancient times, the Black Forest had been known as the  _ Abnona mons _ , after the old Celtic river goddess who was a patron to the Suebi tribe. The Romans, however, had dubbed it the  _ Sylvia Marciana _ , or the Border Forest. Despite this usurpation of its traditional name, the Romans had very little else to do with the Schwarzwald—save a road and a bath house here and there. It was, overall, just not important for the great and mighty Roman Empire to trouble themselves with. Instead it would mostly be settled by Alemanni, who would establish small townships such as Röthenbach and Baar. 

Perhaps it had once been impassable—dense and dark. The sort of forest that might warrant a name as foreboding as the Black Forest was, but by the eighteenth century had been almost entirely deforested to make room for new settlements and farms and military installments, with only very few monocultures remaining. 

With the Schwarzwald so thoroughly subdued, it was no wonder so many farmers had migrated to the area, to live off the land and to make more money with their craft than they ever could in the almost-uninhabitable north.

In the centre of the southern Schwarzwald region Amelia and her escorts followed a road winding north, following the trail cut by the Weise. The Weise was, apparently, essentially inconsequential compared to the Rhein, which made up the demarcation between France and Germany, or even the Elbe, which ran through eastern Europe, but to the people of Lörrach, it marked that line between prosperity and starvation. 

Plus—it was pretty. Scenic. German iconography at its finest. 

Amelia shifted in her new, freshly-bought clothing—the high collar itched and the skirt was annoyingly restrictive in movement. But it was the clothing of a working woman, and that's what Amelia would be playing the part of: a professional. 

She clenched up. She'd never been a good actress. And now her life depended on it. It would've made for a good joke, if it hadn't been so real. 

Gilbert tapped Amelia's shoulder and pointed to the snow-capped peaks, rising above the dark treeline. “That's the Belchen, highest peak in the Schwarzwald. Can't compare to the Alps, but the people ’round here are proud anyway.”

Gilbert had made it his duty to be her unofficial tour guide, to tell her everything she needed to know about the area. Everything would count, she figured. To help her build up a believable story, to avoid raising any suspicions on her. 

She studied the peak now, lording over the valley, looming against an overcast sky. “It's pretty,” she supposed. 

“We used to visit for Christmas,” Tolys said; he'd been helpful in supplying information when Gilbert forgot, or just when he had something to add. Otherwise, he'd been almost entirely silent, both hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes focused as he stared stonily ahead. “To visit our grandparents. Mother's side.”

“Yeah. Used to climb to the top of that thing with Ludwig before we'd ski back down.”

“And scare Mother half to death in the process,” Tolys muttered. He was smiling though.

“Knew this place like the back of my hand. Pretty much.”

“ _ Sure  _ you did.”

“Hey, you were the one who forgot the map, if I recall correctly.”

Tolys snorted. “Well, then, you don't. ’Cause from what  _ I  _ recall, you told me we didn't  _ need  _ a map and to leave it.”

“You should've known better than to  _ listen _ , Tolys. You're the smart one.”

Tino chuckled. “How about: you are both idiots, and it is settled?”

Amelia continued to stare at the white slope of the mountain. Past the checquerboard snow-blanketed trees and little farms, the upper slope was smooth and white. The full morning light reflected off the rounded east face of the Belchenmont and might've almost been pretty, under better circumstances. 

“Have you ever been skiing, mademoiselle?” Tino glanced at her in the rearview mirror, grinning. He looked  _ so young  _ when he smiled like that.

“Once. My parents took me to some place east of Paris for Christmas.” It hadn't gone well, if her memory served her right: she'd fallen and cried and refused to get back on. She'd been scared of skiing ever since then, much to Arthur's amusement. Movement near the top of the mountain caught Amelia's attention. She pointed. “Vacationers?”

“Doubt it,” Tolys said quickly. “Though a lot of SS vacation around here. It's probably just Gebirgsjäger, training for winter combat.”

“Ge—Alpine troops train here?”

Tino nodded; he'd twisted in his seat to face her and was grinning broadly at her . “I have actually just gotten a transfer to work with some new recruits. That is going to be me up there tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Amelia chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Sounds like lotsa fun.”

“It should be. I love to yell at idiots.” The men all laughed and Amelia managed to smile. “And mountains, of course.”

They passed through a small village nestled in a snow-banked clearing, with thick snow-drifts spilling over into the banks of the Weiss. The place seemed deserted, and Amelia wondered if it's population had been another casualty of the war. It was cute though, with its little, stereotypical German homes and quaint church. 

“Frohnd,” Tolys explained, as if reading her thoughts. “Still too early for the local wildlife.”

Amelia smiled a bit, pulling her coat snugly around her shoulders. The cold from outside penetrated right to the car's interior, and Amelia tried to keep her teeth from chattering too embarrassingly loudly. She dreamed of a warm fireplace—she'd even settle for a warm bed. She would never take summer for granted again.

“Up ahead is Wembach. A ways farther is Schönenberg—used to live there.”

Amelia blinked. “Really?”

It had been the last thing she'd expected—Gilbert seemed to be a proud East Prussian, through and through. 

“After the war, yeah, with—” He flexed his jaw. “It's a very beautiful place, like the name would imply.”

Amelia didn't ask him any more questions after that, settling back in her seat to continue staring out the window. Her breath fogged against the glass, and she watched as it slowly dissipated into little droplets, running down the frame. 

Tolys gave Gilbert a sympathetic look from the driver's seat, through the rearview mirror. “Gilb—”

“Lass es gut sein.”

The car fell silent, aside from the rumbling of the engine, and the four's steady breathes, coming out in bursts of condensed air. Tolys kept glancing back at Gilbert, like he had something he wanted to say. Eventually he sighed and put his gaze back on the road, murmuring to himself. 

Tino slumped deeply into his seat and yawned loudly. “Nimmst du nach Wembach die Oststraße nach Schönau. Ich muss mich melden, oder? Soll ich mich für dich melden, Gilbert?”

Tolys nodded stiffly as Gilbert said, “Ich kann es selber tun. Lass den Gefangenen im Auto. Tolys.”

Tolys nodded again.

Amelia cursed inwardly. She really should've taken that German course. 

Gilbert jut his chin to a passing farm. “Most houses here around built exclusively of Schwarzwald wood. ’Round here, people are pretty much self-sufficient. Or, they  _ were _ , before the war.”

“Yeah?” At least he was out of his short mood. 

“Yeah. Now food is rationed, and most of it'll go to the Wehrmacht anyway. They need their wine on the Eastern Front, you know.”

“S'what Old Fritz would've wanted,” Tolys said. 

Tino snorted. 

“Beleidige den Alter nicht so. Er hätte nichts von der Scheiß gewollt.” Gilbert chuckled airily, though he sounded much more serious when he spoke. “Dieser Idiot ist eine Beleidigung für ganz Preußen, von Fritz bis Kaiser Wilhelm. Und jeder  _ sogenannte patriotische Preuße _ , der ihn unterstützt, verdient es, auf die Straße gezerrt und erschossen zu werden, trotz der Schande, die er unserer Geschichte zugefügt hat.”

“Genau.” Tolys have Gilbert a hard look. “Aber wenn du zogst heraus und erschossest wirst wollen, dass du hätst den Mund. Ja?”

“Ja.” Gilbert's lip curled. “Scheiß drauf.”

Tolys signed. “Ja ich weiß.”

As they drove into Schönau Amelia suddenly realized their staff car had been the only vehicle she'd seen on the road, in their eight or so hours of driving. Or, at least, was visible when she'd been paying attention. And there seemed to be  _ no other  _ cars in the miniscule community. Amelia shrunk into her seatz sliding down as far as she could; while German officers with a woman was not an overly impressive sight in a place frequented by SS personnel, the few curious glances that  _ were  _ sent Amelia's way brought two bright red spots to Amelia's cheeks. 

After a few minutes of driving around, Tino reached a hand to tap Tolys's shoulder. “Genau hier.”

Tolys pulled the Citroën next to a small, unassuming building with a thatched roof and lime green shutters. Amelia resisted the urge to point out how cute it looked as Tino and Gilbert exited the vehicle. 

“Signing in,” Told explained as the doors slammed shut. “So they won't be registered as deserters.”

_ Oh, of course.  _ Because that was just so normal. All of this was just so normal. How could he be so casual?

“Put on your wig, mademoiselle.” 

In Belfort the men had decided that a nice wig, new makeup and German-made clothing would go along way for Amelia's new alias—Ophèlie Frank, a French-born German woman who worked as a tutor for little German kids, too young for just Kindergarten full-time—in making it appear authentic. Which had all been an adventure in and of itself, worthy of a great Tolkien novel. Or maybe even a Greek epic by Homer. 

First they had to find a shop that sold wigs, which had taken about fifteen minutes of Tino awkwardly jogging around to ask the local young women, until eventually a helpful middle-aged teacher had pointed them in the right direction. Once at the shop, it had taken much discussion, all of which was in rapid German, with Tino and Gilbert scrutinizing her face in order to decide if that she'd do better with a blonde or brown wig—but with her ‘ _ gerade, nordische Nase, blaue Augen und sehr höllandische Wangenknochen _ ,’ they eventually agreed she looked ‘Aryan enough’ to pull off a brown wig properly. (As in, she wouldn't raise any suspicion among her neighbours in such a small, homogeneous German village).  _ And then  _ they got into a whole new debate on the style, until someone  _ finally  _ suggested ringlets, which everyone agreed would be very elegant. 

Amelia obediently donned the chestnut-coloured wig, careful to not let any of her blonde curls show through. She secured it with pins before replacing her hat, careful not to jostle the wig as she did so. Tolys nodded, satisfied. 

She definitely looked different, with the rouge and powder to make her face appear so much paler, freckle-less, and smoother; and her cheeks redder, rosier, rounder. Makeup wasn't really encouraged for women by the German propaganda department, but it seemed many young women found it too fashionable and fun to give up, even for the Führer, so she was also given red lipstick and a bit of eyeshadow (which she, of course, had applied herself). Her new clothing was durable, but pretty and professional. And very, extremely modest. Another stipulation, made by the German government. German women were mothers and homemakers; American fashion, and all of its scandal, had no part in the image. 

Gilbert wolf-whistled and Tino told her the colour looked  _ very  _ nice on her when they had returned to the Citroën. 

She grinned at them. Leave it to her, to get a confidence-boost from the enemy. 

Tolys tried to drive out of Schönau as quickly as he possibly could after that, while not getting in the way of the waking villagers. Amelia continued to stare out the window; the village centre was round, with little stalls and small shops, and women with baskets or small children hurrying about somberly on their morning business. And there was no young men in sight. Despite the cute, cheery buildings which seemed to be from a scene in a fairytale, ripped straight from the pages of a child's storybook, there was an air of emptiness. Of  _ loss.  _ It was overwhelming, suffocating, claustrophobic. 

Few of these women and children and whomever else was left  _ hadn't  _ suffered a loss at the cruel, unfeeling hands of the war—a husband, son, brother, or somebody else. Her empathy for their struggles transcended any cultural or moral or political boundaries: loss was universal, and it  _ hurt. _

“Wir müssen hier abbiegen und dem Floss folgen.” 

“Ach so.”

They were driving through an open valley, the road only occasionally parallel to the river for ‘following’ it, and times they drove close enough for Amelia to see the snow-drifts piled atop its banks in full detail, on both sides, the valley made way for large, impressive mountains, rising in wide, dramatic sweeps and tree-lined summits that pierced the sky. The road they followed was hardly more than a depression in the snow: vehicles didn't come this way often. 

They split away from the river completely and into the treeline. Once, Amelia had found herself grasping the edge of her seat as the Citroën slid towards the side of the road, but Tolys jerked the wheel and the tires dug into the surface of the road, grinding stubbornly into the road's surface until the car was again moving toward the trees. No one else seemed to be concerned during all of this. 

The vehicle moved at a snail's crawl, which Tolys didn't seem to be too fond of, under a canopy of large evergreens, until they had completely circled to the backside of a small hill. Tolys cursed and grumbled as he wrestled with the steering wheel and the icy roads—or, at least, what was visible of them. Tino yawned, and his head slumped against the window. Gilbert leaned forward as he spoke quietly with his brother—which  _ really  _ appear to help with Tolys' agitation. 

Belchenmont stayed in prominent view through Amelia's window: she watched the tiny dots which were apparently skiers at the top, moving like ants scuttling over a mound of sugar. They scattered down the slope in a confused zigzag. 

Her breath condensed against the window. She shivered. Tino snored. She wished she could sleep.

The scenery changed as they left the treeline: a meadow where the snow deepened and the road disappeared almost entirely. Tolys continued his mantra of cursing anyone and anything he could possibly think of, now more seething than grumbles. 

They rounded a bend and Tolys exhaled. “Preist die verdammten Götter.”

A large farm sprawled across the length and breadth of a clearing, tucked behind the hill and obscured from view when on the main road. 

They passed through an open wrought-iron gate and followed a stone wall toward a small cluster of buildings. Snow was piled absolutely everywhere to make room for visitors and to clear pathways, taller than Amelia when she stood on her tip-toes even. In the centre, a gigantic two-story house was flanked by a few different outer buildings, like a mother hen guarding her chicks. A wood-shake roof angled sharply to keep off heavy snowfall, it's shingles shining with moisture and almost completely clear of any white powder—large piles of snow which had slid off built a natural wall around the perimeter. The flue was dead-centre and sprouted a thin ribbon of dark smoke. 

Fit snugly against the stone wall, a small cottage made of the same material was swathed in a blanket of white and icicles hung from the roofs so low, they almost met the ground. Slightly further out from the main house, a red barn with peeling, worn-out paint and a rather large workshop seemed almost huddled together, as if to keep each other warm. Several tool sheds had seemed to be transformed into oddly-shaped lumps of snow, their doors only partially visible. 

Tolys pulled up to as close to the front of the house as he could. A German Shepherd dashed around the corner to greet them, his enthusiastic barking the herald to their arrival. 

A woman appeared at the doorstep, in muted, plain clothing with a wane figure, and the dog went to sit eagerly at her hills. Tolys killed the motor when he caught sight of her, and the three officers opened their doors in perfect unison. The woman walked down the porch steps to greet them. 

Gilbert approached her with a hand outstretched for a handshake; the woman instead greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks, and did so for Tolys as well. Tino simply waved at her, leaning against the car, ready to open the door for Amelia when the time came. 

Gilbert pulled a letter from the inside of his uniform overcoat, which the woman almost immediately turned to read. The brothers politely stepped away when she did this. 

The woman modded as she turned back around, handing the letter back to Gilbert quickly. She spoke and Tolys gestured towards Amelia. 

The dog sniffed at the newcomers' feet and Tino bent to scratch his ears vigorously. 

Amelia opened the door as the woman approached and she shuddered at the sudden rush of cold. Her teeth audibly clacked.

_ If I survive this, I'm moving somewhere warm.  _

But Amelia didn't have much time to consider the prospects of buying a nice little bungalow in Florida or California, because she was suddenly face to face with the woman. 

She wasn't what Amelia had expected—when she was told she'd be moving in with a trusted friend on a lonely property in southern Germany to work as a live-in tutor, she'd expected an older woman, with very German features and maybe even wearing a dirndl. 

This woman couldn't be farther from that image—she was a few inches shorter than Amelia's already pretty small stature and her dark olive-toned skin had a flawlessness Amelia would kill for. Stormy hazel eyes studied her face carefully, appraising her. Stress lines around her eyes aged her, betraying the psychological effects the war had on her. A scarf barely held back a full head of black-brown curls that framed her thin, pinched face. She smelled home-y—like wood-smoke and home-made soap and bread. 

But—though she tried to hide it behind her deep frown and furrowed brows—Amelia could see the smile lines around her mouth and the deep-rooted warmth in her eyes.

After an agonizingly long moment under the woman's scrutiny (how could one so small be so intimidating), her frown had turned into a lovely, welcoming smile that nagged at Amelia. Like she recognized it from somewhere, despite the woman being a stranger to her. 

“The lieutenant says you are Ophèlie Frank.” Her French had a heavy accent, but it was too sing-song for the German she had expected from it. “You are welcome to my home, Ophèlie.”

Amelia gaped. “Uh…”

Gilbert joined the women at the side of the car, leaning casually against it. “Ophèlie, meet Frau Chiara Vargas. You will be staying with her until you are summoned.”

Definitely not German—though beyond Mediterranean, Amelia wasn't sure what Chiara Vargas was. Her last name said Spain, but her accent said otherwise. 

Then she realized—she'd be staying with this woman, all alone?

Gilbert smirked at the flicker in her eyes. “Tino and Tolys'll be rooming in that cottage and I'll be booking a room in Schönau. So you will not even  _ think _ of taking any journeys on your own, understood?”

Amelia nodded. She understood. 

Frau Vargas' brow creased in concern; she spoke to Gilbert in rapid German and Gilbert answered her in length, his expression a mirror of hers. 

Finally, he turned back to Amelia. “Just so we're clear: you're under house arrest, mademoiselle, and in the custody of Chiara Vargas. Don't cause her any trouble.” 

Amelia nodded again. 

“In dein Brief stand, dass sie dem Jungen Nachhilfe geben wird, richtig?” Chiara Vargas folded her arms. “Ist das nicht gefährlich? Was wenn sie ihm beibringt, sein Land zu hassen?”

“Sie wird ihm nur das beibringen, worum du sie bittest. Außerdem ist es nur eine Tarnung.” He patted Amelia's shoulder and she cringed away from his touch. “Sie muss nicht einmal mit dem Jungen sprechen, geschweige denn ihn unterrichten.” 

Chiara nodded, reassured. Amelia frowned. 

Gilbert turned to Amelia again. “We'll be no trouble, Fräulein. Mostly in town, working. You won't even know we're here.”

Tino and Tolys unloaded their gear, the dog weaving in between their feet, laughing and talking, and headed towards the cottage. They had to lift their boots painfully high in order to trudge through the snow. Gilbert slid behind the wheel, waved once, and then turned the Citroën back through the direction at which it came. 

The shepherd followed the retreating vehicle to the gate, barking and snapping enthusiastically at the tires. 

“Blitzer: Halt!” 

The dog came back, tail wagging and tongue lolled out to the side. He went inside the cottage with Tino, who seemed unconcerned with this development. 

Chiara turned towards Amelia. “Gilbert says you might try to escape.”

Amelia flinched but said nothing. It was true; no point in denying it.

“I understand why you would want to, signorita, but the nights here are cold enough to kill.” 

“I understand.” 

“Besides, the dog will alert me and the soldiers—”

“Madame Vargas, I understand; thank you for your worry.”

Frau Vargas nodded; her eyes held a guarded sort of pity, maybe even empathy. “I am sorry to meet you like this. I am sure you are a nice person. I am sure many Americans are nice. It is too bad, this war, yes?”

“Yes. Too bad, this war.”

Frau Vargas' voice softened as she took Amelia's frail, cold hands into callused, warm ones. “You are hungry? You will need food and also a bath, yes? There is hot water.”

Amelia smiled. “That sounds wonderful, madame.”

Inside there was low, cozy ceilings and a rather large, cluttered living room. A large stone fireplace dominated the west wall, wide enough that Amelia could probably even lie down in it, if the urge every struck her. Above red flames, a rough-hewn mantle protruded from the stone. Several framed photographs and figurines took up space, giving it a homey, comforting appearance. 

A large wooden clock also hung over the fireplace: around two feet tall maybe, and every inch of its surface showed intricate detail. It was an elaborate explosion of vines, leaves, grapes and delicate blossoms. It was absolutely gorgeous and Amelia wished her father could be there to see it: like his father, Mr. Jones absolutely adored woodcarving and he would've treated this particular piece as if it had been from God Himself. 

Suddenly two of the wooden leaves arched together above the carved clock face and a tiny wooden bird shoot into Amelia's face. 

“ _ Shit! _ ” She stumbled backwards; the little bird rocked tauntingly on his perch and whistled nine times, as if he was laughing at her.

From the other side of the room, Frau Vargas' actually was laughing at her from behind a polite fist. “Es ist eine Kuckucksuhr.”

“What?”

“Kuckucksuhr.” Frau Vargas repeated herself slowly, enunciating every syllable. “Kukuck! Kucuck!”

“Oh.” Amelia flushed. “A cuckoo clock.”

“Yes, that is the word.” Chiara grimaced. “I am glad you know it. I feel—” 

She waved herself off as she turned towards the kitchen and Amelia—with one last glare directed at the clock—followed after her, rubbing her arms. 

There was another fireplace in the kitchen, this time with a long iron hook hanging from the stone above the fire—an iron pot hung from the hook. Steam rose from the kettle and whatever its contents had a spicy smell. 

Frau Vargas stood at the beach wood tar and cut a half loaf of round black bread. She gestured toward a seat at the table across from her. “Come. Sit. You will eat.”

Amelia quickly obeyed and watched gratefully as her hostess put the bread on a plate in front of her, and ladled some thick stew from the pot for her as well. And then, a mug of coffee, which she set beside the food. 

“Uh, thank you. Danke.” She coughed awkwardly before pointing at her drink. “I, uh, I don't like coffee very much.” 

“Ophèlie, you are tired and cold—” 

“No, no, thank you. I—um...I jus' don't like coffee very much.” 

Frau Vargas raised an eyebrow. “Are you a child? Are you sixteen?”

Amelia pursed her lips, cheeks burning. “I'm twenty-three.” 

“If you are twenty-three,” Chiara splayed her hands flat on the table, “you will drink, yes?”

Amelia sighed, nodding. Frau Vargas, as it was,  _ was  _ right—she was tired, she was cold, and she had made her coffee, and she was inviting her—a criminal—into her home. Amelia really wasn't in the position to protest. She  _ did _ , however, only sip at her coffee, wrinkling her nose. “Thank you, Frau Vargas.” 

“Chiara.” The woman said suddenly, startling Amelia. “My name is  _ Chiara.”  _

_ Swiss, maybe. Some Swiss speak Italian, right?  _

Amelia grinned at her. “Chiara, then. I'm so sorry ’bout all o’ this, Chiara.”

“Do not worry,  _ signorita _ —you are welcome for as long as you want—” Chiara corrected herself—“ _ have  _ to stay.”

  
  
  


Major Ludwig Beilschmidt studied the old man who now sat in front of him carefully. The Parisian caretaker of a small abandoned cottage sat hunched at the kitchen table, opposite to Ludwig. His eyes remained lower—docile and subdued.  _ For now, at least. _

He seemed fifty, maybe older—it was hard to tell, with the war going on and all the stress of it beginning to record on their bodies with wrinkled, gaunt expressions, sagging skin and dulling, thinning hair. Just a few months ago, Ludwig himself had noticed a couple silvery hairs that hadn't been there before while shaving one morning (Gilbert had laughed when he had told him about it the phone). 

The caretaker—a Monsieur Pierre-Marie Frère—displayed a goodly percentage of these affects, and then some, with decaying teeth, varicose veins and knob-knocked elbows and knees. His frail hands trembled around his steaming mug—perhaps from fear, perhaps from infirmity, one could never be sure. 

Frère licked his thin lips thoughtfully, neck bowed to his mug. “I wouldn't lie—I never lie—I promise! I don't know who owns the house—or where they've gone.”

One of Ludwig's aides ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Frère winced. 

“Be still, Hemmel.” Ludwig turned his attention back to the prisoner. “I have no reason to doubt you, monsieur. You're probably telling the—”

“I am, I am—on the Virgin, Her Son, and the Lord Himself, I am.”

“Du hälst jetzt dein Maul!” Hemmel slammed a hand down on the table in front of Frère (the old man winced again), before clearing his throat. “The major is  _ talking. _ ”

“Please, Hemmel—I can handle this myself.” He turned his attention back on the man. “But I still have to ask, monsieur, who pays your salary? You say you were hired to care for the residence—to make it appear occupied.”

Ludwig half-smiled. “I must say, you've done your job admirably well—you almost had me fooled. Oh—your coffee. It's almost gone. Hemmel, if you don't mind…?”

Hemmel nodded, before picking up the coffee-pot and refilling Pierre-Marie's mug. He went back to hang along the wall. 

“Thank you. Now, Monsieur Frère, who pays you for your care of the property?”

“A—it's different every week, monsieur. Say, a boy on his bicycle might stop me on the street, or-or a loaf of bread with the money left inside will just suddenly appear on my doorstep.” Frère took a careful sip of his coffee. “It's different every week.”

“I understand.” Ludwig crossed his arms. He glanced to the only other person in the room, outside of his aide—Achim Stangl, who leaned against the closed door of the kitchen stairs, his expression devoid of all emotions as he observed the proceedings. “Very well.”

Stangl caught Ludwig's glance and dipped his chin slightly—an almost imperceptible not that would have escaped the scrutiny of all but the most astute observer. 

Pierre-Marie Frère was  _ not  _ the most astute observer and missed the exchange entirely. 

“I see no need to detain you for any longer, monsieur.” Ludwig rubbed his chin tiredly. “You've been treated fairly, I hope. And I wish you a pleasant journey home.”

The old caretaker stated at Ludwig, brows furrowed, mouth twitching. 

“He told you to go, old man,” Hemmel spat, wrenching Frère to his feet. “So go.”

“ _ Soldat _ .”

“Apologies, Major.” Hemmel lowered his head in discomfort, shame.

“Accepted, of course. Now, monsieur, I would advise for you to go sooner rather than later—before it grows too cold out.”

Frère stated for another long moment, before shuffling out the door, sending one last glare Ludwig's way. 

Stangl waited a full minute before following suit—silent, lurking inside the darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, turns out typing out ten more chapters might have been a little bit, you know, ambitious, because I got two new dogs I'm fostering for Christmas, and they've been a real handful.
> 
> I'll try to get a couple more chapters out soon.


	15. Chapter 15

Chiara, naturally, had been right. She  _ did  _ need a long hot bath—she had hardly noticed how numb and tired she felt until she stepped into the large, clawed bathtub—it had just become her new normal, she supposed. Which, of course, was  _ not good _ , but she couldn't even begin to admonish herself for not trying harder to think about home, family,  _ anything  _ but her captivity. Her captors. Her situation. 

And she's been  _ socializing  _ with them too, as if she hadn't been stupid enough. It's like she  _ wanted _ to develop some sort of complex. 

“This is for hair,” Chiara had told her after she started to draw her a bath (Amelia couldn't stop her, as much as she tried). The bottle was small and white, and she had tossed it into Amelia's hand. “That is soap in the bathtub and there is towels here, when you are finished.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “You've done so much already.”

“Do not mention it,” Chiara mumbled. “It is nothing.”

She tried her best to finish bathing quickly—but the steam coming up from the bathtub was so inviting and the soap smelled  _ so _ wonderful. Her eyes drooped and her head rolled back so many times. 

She had to get out— _ before  _ she fell asleep and drowned, preferably. 

She toweled herself off and combed through stringy hair, drying it as well. She had to put her wig back on first, of course, before she left. And, though she was entirely sure on the rules of proper wig care, she figured not putting it on a wet head would probably be the  _ first  _ thing. It seemed pretty obvious to her, anyway, and it was better safe than sorry.

She re-dressed and pinned her wig back in her hair—again, careful to tuck any loose blonde curls out of sight ( _ out of mind) _ . She looked disturbingly different, with brown hair and her new clothing, but she didn't have time to dwell on that. It was better  _ not  _ to think about it. It would only serve to stress her out. 

She braced herself against the sink, trying to steady her increasingly erratic breathing.  _ This  _ had  _ not  _ been something the SOE had trained her for. Get captured, sure. Get tortured, sure. Act natural under a new alias,  _ of course.  _ But this? Living as a prisoner in the enemy's house, under a new name, with almost no idea of what her captor's are trying to accomplish by keeping her here?

It was insane. Had she not been experiencing herself, had heard it from some other agent or soldier, she would've laughed at such make believe. It was impossible; would  _ never  _ happen. Not in real life. Just in stupid stories told to scare new recruits.

Yet, here she was. The  _ star  _ of said stupid story.

What kind of fucked up comedy had her life come to? 

_ Don't cry, Jones. You are  _ not  _ going to cry.  _

So she didn't. She splashed some cold water on her face and counted her breathes. She wasn't about to cry. Amelia Jones  _ would not _ cry.

The water in the tub finished draining with a gurgle and Amelia dried off her face. 

The hallway was not empty when she exited the washroom: she almost didn't notice the small boy standing at the top of the stairs, watching her curiously as she closed the door softly behind her with a soft click. 

His hair was a sleep-ruffled brown and his eyes were wide pools of melted chocolate. In one chubby fist he held a wooden soldier; in the other a small chunk of black bread. Crumbs trailed behind him and he blinked up at her a few times before he broke into a dimpled grin, screeched, and turned turned to run down the stairs on pudgy legs. 

Amelia watched him go, puzzled, despite the smile on her face. He may have been loud, but he had a cute face and he was too tiny to find annoying, and she was quick to follow him down the stairs to convince him she  _ wasn't  _ an intruder. 

When Amelia got down the stairs, the boy was standing at the foot of the couch, yelling in rapid-fast German that Amelia couldn't even  _ begin  _ to decipher. His eyes never left her face. 

Amelia sank to her knees in front of him. “Hello. My name is A—Ophélie.” She pointed at herself. “What's yours?”

The boy was quiet now, but he reached up to touch Amelia's cheek with his toy soldier. 

“Ophèlie.” She pointed at herself. Then she lightly prodded the boy's chest with her forefinger. “What's  _ your  _ name?”

Suddenly the boy began to yell excitedly at the top of his voice and gestured with his little toy soldier, all whole staring at Amelia.  _ God,  _ she wished she took that German class.

Chiara came from the kitchen to watch. “I see that you are meeting Angelo.”

Amelia blinked.  _ Angelo.  _ Like Chiara, it didn't sound very German. 

“He is telling you about his toy,” Chiara continued, voice soft, almost reverent, as she walked closer. “His father made it for him before the war. He thinks you are his mother.”

Amelia gaped. “Oh, my God, I'm so sorry, Chiara—I didn't mean to—” She raised her eyebrows. “Wait, wait, wait. So—you're  _ not  _ his mother?”

Chiara shook her head. “No, not at all. I am his  _ Tante _ —his aunt. This is his father's home—I care for it and the boy while he is gone.”

She carefully sat down on the couch next to where Amelia knelt. “His mother is my sister. I stay here too for protection while my brother—resistance in Italy.”

Amelia was taken aback by this, and her head hurt as the cogs in her brain began to move. Chiara was his aunt, Angelo wasn't a German name—neither Chiara nor Angelo was German, that was for sure. Her brother-in-law protected her as her husband found in the Italian resistance.

None of it made sense; none of it was anything like Amelia had expected.

But she supposed that must've been why Chiara had been ‘a trusted friend,’ to them. Her husband was resistance—she wouldn't snitch on Amelia. 

But  _ how  _ did they know her? That was the million dollar question. She seemed to be pretty friendly with Tolys and Gilbert—she had kissed them both in greeting. Did she know them? But how?

_ None  _ of it made sense, but it was comforting nonetheless. Perhaps she and Chiara might have an understanding, in any case. 

Amelia picked Angelo up and settled on the couch next to Chiara. Angelo played happily in her lap. “Well, uh, what happened? To his mother? Uh, your…?”

“She was my little sister,” Chiara murmured, petting Angelo's hair lightly. “She died. Two years ago.”

Chiara's face remained emotionless as Amelia glanced over to her, around Angelo's soft curls. But when Amelia looked away, she saw the way Chiara sucked in her cheeks from the corner of her eye. 

“That's so sad,” Amelia whispered. “That must've been real hard on you. Uh, both of you.”

“It is,” was all the woman said. 

Angelo patted Amelia's shoulders, munching on bread and giggling. 

“Well, what should I do, Chiara? I don't want him to think I'm his mom.” Amelia's eyes began to sting a bit. “That'd be cruel.”

Chiara placed a tentative hand on her knee, eyebrows pulled up. “You are...okay?”

“My, uh, my own momma died a few years back, an’—” Amelia gulped; her throat felt dry—“well, it still hurts.”

“My mother died too, as I was really young. It was very hard when my father had a new wife.” Chiara shook her head and Amelia wanted to voice her sympathies for the woman—she had gone through so much loss already—but she really doubted Chiara would ever accept any of her pity. “But this is why I do not think it will be cruel, Ophèlie. All days he asks me, ‘Will Mutti come to play today?’” 

Amelia hugged the boy close and he giggled. “Wow. That sounds...tough.”

“Yes, he is too young to understand that his mother will not come home. And it is painful for the father so we do not talk about it.” Chiara raises her hands in exasperation. “So the boy asks.”

“Ah, I see. Still, must be hard, you're sister bein' gone, an'—” 

“She is dead. I do not need to be treated so careful.” Amelia disagreed; her jaw was tight and though her hands were clasped together, she could still see them shake. 

“Well, yeah—dead. An’ your husband's in Italy an’ you're in a foreign country…”

The fire crackled. Chiara stared into it. She looked tired. 

“Yes, it is hard, but I need to protect the boy—there is no one else for him.” Chiara smoothed her hair back, but her curling bangs stayed stubbornly in her eyes. “But it is for my safety too. The father protects me from the Germans as long as I stay as a maid. Thanks to the laws.”

Amelia nodded. “Where—where is the father?”

“Away, for the war. He is a soldier.” 

“Oh.”

Amelia chewed on her cheek. Chiara's story wasn't helpful—not in giving her a clue about how she might have been connected to her German captors. 

Perhaps Tolys helped her get from Germany to Italy, with fake documents and such, like he'd done for her. Would Chiara have needed fake documents? She wasn't sure about that either—not if her little sister was already married to a German soldier. But her little sister was dead, so maybe that would change things?

Or maybe—

“Be his Mutti for now. He will know someday.” Chiara touched Angelo's cheek affectionately. “He needs the happiness.”

Amelia had lost her train of thought at that. Her? Pretend to be the boy's mother? That would be insane. 

But Angelo had continued to grin up at her, his chubby cheeks and pink lips covered with crumbs. Amelia couldn't say no to such a sweet, innocent little face. So instead she kissed him on top of the head before smoothing the hair out of his face. 

“I'm sure you'll see your Mutti again someday, but I s'pose now I'll fill the role.” The boy watched her eagerly, though Amelia doubted he understood the English. “Least ’til your daddy gets home an’ sets things straight. Deal?”

Angelo had nodded with her. “Mutti.”

  
  


When Major Ludwig Beilschmidt arrived at the old stone courtyard of Château de Lafont, Lieutenant Meer hurried to meet him at the stop steps which led up to its grand entrance before Ludwig had even left his vehicle. His eyes darted.

They quickly  _ heil _ 'd in greeting. 

“What is it, Lieutenant?” Ludwig left his suitcase got the driver as he and Meer fell into step next to each other. “What's happened?”

“Your plainclothes officer—Strangl—who followed the old man—” 

Ludwig felt himself seize up. With that tone, he doubted Meer brought with him any  _ good  _ news. “Well?”

“The Maquis followed him, Major.” Meer hesitated. “Shot him execution-style, I suppose. Left him floating face-down in the river.”

  
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

_ 23 December 1943  _

_ Somewhere in Lorräch, Baden-Würtemberg _

The Third Reich gave every German citizen the  _ illustrious  _ duty of contributing to the  _ glory  _ of the war effort. Under the steadfast and dutiful leadership of the Führer, every last citizen would become involved—whether they liked it or not. This, of course, would all be implemented mostly by the local  _ Hitlerjugend  _ groups (as most of the grown men were gone off to war, and women were busy picking up the slack); they would knock on the doors of every resident to collect every last scrap of metal, clothing and spare fabric, and  _ any  _ food they could find, down to the very last crumb. Even with almost nothing but what they had on their backs, the German people were required to give—and give they did. Even a few potatoes, pushed to the back of the pantry, became an offering worthy of the gods that were the German army. 

The military  _ always  _ came first. 

And,  _ no _ —starvation did not constitute a valid reason for resistance. And hiding any supplies usually meant severe punishment. 

In Amelia’s week and a half with Chiara Vargas, she had figured this out pretty quickly—and then some. Everything in Germany was about the war effort, the NSDAP (what the Germans called the Nazi Party in German—a useful thing to know, if she wanted to blend in) and, of course, the mighty Fuhrer himself. Even the stationary Chiara used to write down her shopping lists held pro-Nazi slogans and phrases, advocating for the war efforts and admonishing the good people to remember that anyone could be a spy. Which Amelia found amusing to no end because, of course,  _ she was a spy herself.  _

“City children will come,” Chiara had explained to Amelia as she was outlining her daily chores—mostly help around the farm and stuff like that—which Amelia didn’t mind in the slightest, “and they will steal—anything they can find, they take. Let them. They have little. And anything the soldiers find, they take away.”

_ Better to starving families than to the soldiers.  _ And though Chiara hadn’t explicitly said that, Amelia understood the subtext.

Living on a farm made them fortunate—they had a few more options than city-dwelling folks—but Chiara often complained about the scarcity of vegetables and the  _ less than desirable  _ quality of the meat. “We will not go hungry,” she told Amelia, “but you will have to get used to the food. And to having an empty stomach.”

Amelia had nodded. “Of course.”

Chiara had explained she usually made her bread with whatever ingredients most closely resembled those before the war—milk only came if they were lucky and the goat surrendered a few ounces over to them. Chiara had also begun illegally hoarding Christmas supplies a few months back—but even with all of her efforts and strict savings, the supplies were meager and of a subpar quality. At least, when compared to what Amelia was used to, even with the rationing, back home.

She wouldn’t say anything about it though; Chiara clearly already felt badly enough about it. She didn’t want to make it any worse.

The day before Christmas Eve came about suddenly—Amelia hadn’t even realized it was December, let alone so close to Christmas—and everyone was completely unprepared, from what Amelia could tell. She could tell Chiara had been stressed, more agitated than what seemed like usual, and Angelo seemed pretty excited, but Amelia had chalked all of that up to her presence—she was a stressful person, according to most people in her life, and this was a stressful situation. 

Amelia had woken up early, as she usually did. She felt productive ever since taking up residence with Chiara, more productive than she’d been feeling in quite some time. At the very least, she had useful work to do and wasn’t just sitting around, feeling sorry for herself and waiting for some sort of rescue attempt or something. As it turned out, playing the damsel in distress didn’t suit Amelia very well, and she felt herself growing more and more restless by the day. At least with Chiara she had somewhere to  _ put  _ that energy. She’d even started doing push-ups and sit-ups (twenty, all together) in the morning again.

On this particular morning, after rolling out of bed and going through her daily regimen, Amelia had made herself her usual watered-down coffee for breakfast, grateful for its warmth after waking up early to shovel the snow from the most-used walkways. She’d been up early enough to see Tolys and Tino leave for their respective jobs, and they had waved at her quite pleasantly. Apparently they planned on skiing down the mountainside, but Amelia didn’t say anything about it. At the very least, they didn’t seem too upset by the arrangement and she didn’t want to say (or  _ do _ ) anything that might ruin that. 

The sun was just beginning its slow ascent and Amelia watched the sky from the little square kitchen window from where she stood, leaning against the counter. After her breakfast, she would go to milk the goat, and after that, she had volunteered to clean and the fireplaces and sweep, to free up Chiara’s time, so she could get started for her preparations on Christmas Eve. 

The snow that had suddenly started as Amelia milked the goat (she believed her name was Gunhilde) had thankfully let up early in the afternoon, around when Amelia had finished the first floor of the house, but Chiara insisted she could finish it later and to go play with Angelo outside, while the sun lasted. Angelo was anxious to play with her anyway, and was starting to go a bit stir-crazy, it seemed. He cried pretty often anyway and, according to Chiara, at least, he usually wasn't a crier. 

They released the goat and let her run; she tore through the property with Blitzer on her heels, stopping to chew on anything that looked like it  _ might  _ give for her teeth. 

Meanwhile, a la Blitzer and the goat, Amelia had to chase after Angelo—who ran, by the way, shockingly fast for a little boy with such small, stubby legs and  _ definitely did not  _ mean Amelia had gotten slower—past the workshop and through a mass of trees which Amelia assumed must normally be an apple orchard to the edge of the forest. He pointed up the hill, exclaiming something, and Amelia only really caught onto the words _ Baum _ and  _ Vatti _ —‘tree’ and ‘daddy,’ respectively. 

Angelo was energetic, and as if the constant chores weren't enough, his constant need for play really helped Amelia's muscles refill. Her shoulders had begun to gain back their previous broadness, and she had stopped looking quite so scrawny. Perhaps she wasn't Chiara-levels of strong yet, but she hoped she'd be able to get there someday. 

She raced Angelo back to the house—and though Amelia did let him win, it wasn't some feat. Snow had melted uncomfortably in her boots and her nose was running constantly. She hated the cold; she really did. 

Amelia encouraged Angelo to wave with her when they found Tino and Tolys back at the house, and the men waved back. Gilbert had been right—they were like ghosts, and as long as Chiara kept them supplied with a spot of food here and there and warm bedding, the men were content to keep to themselves. Aside from work, they usually took turns escaping to town on the weekends with Gilbert, where they'd usually come back tired and hungover. 

Angelo ran over and hugged Tolys around the legs before Amelia could stop him. “Sorry,” she puffed, running over. “So sorry.”

“It's okay.” Tolys smiled and ruffled Angelo's hair. “I love this little one's hugs.”

Angelo babbled up at Tolys and the man crouched down to look him in the eye. He was always so much shorter in her mind; Tolys just didn't seem to have the personality of someone who was tall. They conversed in German, Tolys with a soft smile and laughing happily with the boy.

Tino leaned into her. “Sounds like you're doin' a good job with him. He likes you more than he likes me, and I've known him for  _ way  _ longer.”

The two chuckled together. Tino continued, “So whatever you're doing, keep it up. I'm sure his father will be very pleased.”

Amelia smiled. Tino, on the other hand, was consistently shorter than she imagined him to be; he was only an inch or two taller than herself, and it was a wonder he could manage to be so intimidating (though the rifle that seemed almost perpetually on his back certainly did help). 

But something else nagged at her. “How d'you know Angelo and Chiara?”

Chiara had only said they were ‘people she knew,’ and brushed off all of Amelia's (admittedly, quite invasive) follow up questions. There was more to the story; there  _ had  _ to be. Amelia just  _ knew  _ it. 

Tino grinned crookedly. “We're sort of friends, I s'pose.”

Amelia frowned. She had hoped Tino would be talkative enough to answer more specifically. “How long have you known them?”

Tino shrugged. “Few years, I guess.” 

“How'd'ya meet—”

“Mademoiselle, with all due respect,” Tino said quickly, though he didn't seem frustrated or impatient like Chiara had been, “have you ever considered you aren't supposed to know that? I mean, Frau Vargas is here for protection, too.”

Amelia pursed her lips. She  _ hadn't  _ thought of that. “Sorry. Was just curious.”

“That's fine.” Tino looked so calm, and Amelia decided he wasn't lying to ease her discomfort; it  _ was  _ fine and he meant it entirely. “But you know how they say—curiosity killed the cat.”

“But satisfaction brought it back,” Amelia finished, crossing her arms. 

“Well,  _ I'm  _ not going to satisfy any of your curiosity, so you better drop it.”

“Right. You're right.” Amelia sighed. “I'm sorry.”

Tino shrugged easily. “Like I said—it's fine. But you should really be more careful of where you stick your nose into, mademoiselle. Cats have nine lives; you just have one.”

Amelia nodded carefully. She wasn't sure if that was a threat or genuine concern for her safety. Maybe it was both. 

“Suppose I can't ask why you're back early, then?”

“Oh, that?” Tino chuckled brightly, as if nothing had happened. “Sure thing. Christmas is comin' up—Tolys and I got early leave. So does Gilbert, but I think he's...do you know where he is, Lauri?”

Tolys looked up. “Who, Gilbert? Think he's calling Father about something. He'll come by later this evening, I think.”

Tino nodded at her. “Well, there you go.”

Amelia and Angelo eventually said their goodbyes; it had started to snow again before they even made it back in the house, and Chiara met Angelo at the door with warm bread and milk, crooning to him in affectionate Italian. Blitzer laid, peaceful nor, on the kitchen floor next to the fire, and Angelo went to go sit with him as soon as he had finished his food (at Chiara's insistence). It was almost too much cuteness for Amelia to handle when Blitzer put his head on Angelo's lap and the boy squealed in delight, half-petting, half-petting the dog's back. Amelia laughed. 

“I put the goat back,” Amelia told Chiara and the woman nodded. It hadn't been as difficult as Amelia anticipated: the frigid air had left the goat very pliant in being shut back into the warmth and safety of the barn for food, drink and sleep. “I'm gonna finish up with the floors, okay?”

Amelia took the broom she had propped up at the corner of the room and Chiara nodded, still devoting most of her attention to her little nephew. 

Not to brag, but Amelia was  _ amazing  _ at sweeping, and house-cleaning in general. If there had been an Olympic sport for it, she'd probably take home the gold every single time. Though one could probably never guess that, with the mess she tended to keep her belongings in. But—as a girl—she often helped her mother with chores around the house and worked as a cleaner in her aunt's antiques store in Salem over the summers when she was a teenager. 

(God, she hated that shop.)

Her thoughts drifted from summers in Salem with her aunt and quiet mornings in Boston with her mother to Arthur, as they so often did.  _ Especially  _ when left to her own devices, which was also, incidentally, quite often.

Also as usual, her eyes began to hurt and her throat constricted. She hates that this had become so routine to her—thinking about Arthur and bawling like a baby. If she was lucky, Chiara might even try awkwardly rubbing her back, in a desperate attempt to soothe her. 

The snow picked up outside. 

_ “Enough with the sight-seeing, Amy. I'm not a tourist and I need dinner.” Arthur had gripped his stomach dramatically, bumping her shoulder with his own. In the snow he looked like a giant raven, bundled up the way he was, in a long black overcoat and an equally dark cap. His long, pointed node was cherry-red from the cold.  _

_ “I'm famished, darling,” he continued dramatically, putting his hand to his forehead as if he felt he were going to faint. “I'm starving. You're starving me, Amelia.” _

_ Their boots sloshed through the dirty, grey snow. Amelia's long blue scarf fluttered behind her in the early February breeze. Even Amelia had to admit—Boston was  _ hideous  _ this time of year. But waking around, getting out of the house, even in  _ this  _ weather, seemed preferable to watching her mother slowly fade away under her blankets.  _

_ “Told'ya to eat before I went, didn't I?” Amelia had grinned at him, lightly pushing him away. “All this is your own fault.” _

_ “Oh, please. You're just holding me hostage ’til I starve, love.” He clicked his tongue. “Ve-ry cruel.” _

_ Amelia grabbed his hand, still smirking. As usual it fit like a glove (even through their gloves) and Amelia felt like she was floating upon contact.  _

_ “Oh, come on, Artie! You've said so yourself; you've been too busy to see the city.” She picked up her pace, suddenly aware of her own hunger as well, pulling him along with her. “We're almost done. We can eat after this. Promise.” _

_ Arthur put up little resistance as Amelia broke out into a job, using her free hand to anchor her hat down to her head. Partially because Arthur didn't actually want to put up any, and partially because Amelia was strong enough to pull him along with ease. He was lean and short—only three inches taller than herself—and this easy to lift and drag along. And lift him she did. Constantly.  _

_ Amelia navigated through the streets with Arthur in tow, oblivious to the attention she was attracting—the stares, the glares—weaving through pedestrians and traffic. She never let go of Arthur's hand.  _

_ They'd come up the harbor, giggling and out of breath, leaning against one another to stay upright. Boats rocked on the dark waters and though it was almost four-forty, there wasn't a sliver of sunlight in sight. _

_ “Well, shit,” Amelia muttered. _

_ “Hmm?” _

_ “Too dark.” Amelia folded her arms over her chest and huffed. “I was gonna save the best for last—’cause this one is  _ by far  _ the best—an' the most famous, but…” She looked up at the sky, glaring. “It's too dark. Probably wouldn't even be able to see it.” _

_ “See what?” _

_ “The tea, Artie,” Amelia laughed. “You can see still see the tea in the harbour. From the Boston Tea Party. Y'know?” _

_ Arthur squintec and swatted at her playfully. “I knew you were trying to torture me.” _

_ Ever the British stereotype, Arthur loved tea—a cup of tea wasted was like a life wasted and as far as Arthur concerned, the true Boston Massacre had been all that tea which would never be tasted, ‘never be properly enjoyed.’ It was like kicking puppies or hitting women. _

_ Unfathomably wrong.  _

_ “Yep. Guess you got off easy, though.” Amelia mock-glared up at the sky. “Damn you, Zeus.” _

_ They turned around with the new objective of finding a nice, cheapish restaurant for dinner, Arthur humming ‘God Save The King’ in triumph. The streets of Boston were confusing and weaving, built with the stream of settlers arriving in Massachusetts bay, rather than with any real thought put towards city planning, and it was easy for even someone like Amelia, who had lived there for years, to get lost in. But, if they did get lost, she decided that would be alright; Arthur could make anything fun, and it was an adventure nonetheless.  _

_ And, of course, classes began again the next day—which Amelia was also secretly dreading. Not because she hated school—she loved her classes, loved being the only woman there and sitting in front of the class, and being the one to prove that she was the best among her peers, when everyone else doubted her. Economics, business and politics? Those were a man’s world, but Amelia never minded being the first for something.  _

_ No; that wasn’t it. It was that she and Arthur would be forced to keep their distance, by Amelia’s own insistence. Sure, there was nothing  _ technically  _ wrong with dating Arthur, but she wanted to be cautious anyway. And she didn’t like the assumptions that came with dating a professor—even a student one. That she wasn’t really so intelligent. That she was finding ‘alternatives’ in order to achieve the grades she was. It was an annoying thing, something she wished she wasn’t so bothered by. When had Amelia Jones ever been bothered by what others thought of her?  _

_ She banished away those thoughts; that didn’t matter right now. They weren’t in school, and so they were free of the stares and the whispers; they were happy and in love and that was all that mattered.  _

_ Another couple walked by—a pretty young redhead and a tall lanky man—who Amelia recognized almost immediately as Eric and Dolly from Tufts. Eric wore his Navy uniform and laughed a lot as they brushed past them on the narrow sidewalk. Arthur pulled Amelia to a stop, green eyes alight with mischief. _

_ He glanced over his shoulder; the couple had stopped to talk almost ten feet away. Slowly and deliberately, Arthur scooped up a ball of smoke-dirty snow from a bank piled up on the sides of the road and winked. The snowball hit Eric square on his back, in between his shoulder blades.  _

_ “Arthur!” Amelia had whispered, hands flying to her mouth.  _

_ Eric turned around and glanced between Amelia and Arthur. Amelia was quick to point her finger to the true offender. He had already balled up the snow in between his gloves and as soon as he knew his target, he struck it: the target being Arthur’s left shoulder. _

_ “Oh, so that’s how it goin’ to be?” Arthur chuckled, scooping up a new projectile.  _

_ Soon the men were laughing and hurling joking taunts into each throw. Snow was everywhere, exploding in all directions upon impact and completely ruining Arthur’s jacket and Eric’s uniform, like miniature cannonballs. Dolly made snowballs for her beau as fast as Arthur could throw his, and despite the irritated glares thrown by passer-bys, the war had begun. Only truce or triumph could stop it now. _

_ Amelia, however, wasn’t so patient.  _

_ Huffing, she scooped up some snow and wound up her pitch—she had a good arm, an accurate throw and she always dominated the field when the family got together for Thanksgiving and her boy-cousins would suggest a baseball game.  _

_ She aimed and threw without mercy, without compassion. Arthur had taken cover behind the bank he’d been using to form his snowballs, and now the snow crashed against the side of his face, completely taking him back. He turned, gaping and eyebrows raised, before narrowing his eyes at Amelia. “Traitor.” _

_ Amelia shrugged. A snowball hit her side.  _

_ It was every man for themselves now. _

_ Dolly moved to the side to watch after this, giggling at the taunting and quipping.  _

_ And when the shopkeeper whose storefront they had made their chosen battleground burst through the front door, threatening to get the cops, it was Amelia who beaned him in the ear before the four had darted off together, shrieking and laughing.  _

That was how they had become official friends with Eric Larazzo and Dolly Donovan. 

That was also the day, just six months into their courtship, she knew she needed Arthur like she needed air to live. That’s the day Amelia just  _ knew  _ she needed to marry him. 

It was dark now. The sun had officially dipped behind the treeline. The farm’s hidden location cost them an extra hour and a half of sunlight in the winter. 

Satisfied with her work Amelia replaced the broom in its closet and shrugged on her jacket to retrieve firewood from the shed on the side of the house, already shivering against the cold. 

_ Florida’s closer to Boston, but California isn’t as humid. Plus, movie stars. _

_ Dad.  _

She wondered what he was doing right then. She’d been missing in action for weeks now, since early November. Hadn’t even been able to send a letter before her capture. Surely he must’ve suspected something bad might have happened, but did he  _ know _ ? Had the War Department told him yet—and  _ what  _ did they tell him? Missing in Action? Killed in Action? Prisoner of War?

It hurt to think about. 

“I love you, Dad. I’ll be home before you know it.” That’s what she’d said before she left, confident and perky as ever. Now, it came out as a whisper being strangled by tears. Still, she hoped the wind carried it over Europe, over the Atlantic and straight into her father’s still-broken heart. 

She managed to pile five blocks of pinewood into her arms without tipping over. If need be, she’d come out for more later by lantern-light, though that didn’t exactly sound desirable either. Hopefully, this would be enough. 

A large Citroën blocked the driveway near the guest house; in the fading light and falling snow, she could see two dark figures—tall and uniformed. Gilbert and Tolys probably, getting ready to leave for town in order to spend their Christmas leave in a drunken revelry. She  _ could  _ escape. Not that she felt threatened by Chiara—God, no. But she needed to get back to Allied territory, to her father. This would be her first Christmas without him—and his, so utterly alone. It broke her heart.

Would he even take the decorations he loved so dearly out? Had even thought about helping the neighbours, like he and Amelia usually would, with so much going on?

She needed to contact him. He needed to know that  _ she was okay.  _

The two men were watching her as she kicked the snow off of her boots on the front porch, careful not to jostle the bunch of firewood in her arms. She squinted against the darkness but couldn’t make out Gilbert’s features. He was taller than she thought he was. 

Amelia slammed the kitchen door shut with her back and shook the snowflakes out of her wig. 

Chiara took two logs from her for the kitchen fire. She indicated the archway to the living room with her chin. “Angelo is there. He waits for his father to come.”

Amelia went to deposit the remaining logs in the hearth and used a fan to bring the dying embers to life. Lit a match and placed it strategically within the wood and soon the logs were smouldering and crackling. The heat thawed her frozen face. 

Amelia flashed Angelo, waiting impatiently on the couch, a quick smile before rejoining Chiara in the kitchen, wiping the soot on her hands off on her apron. “His father is coming ho—oh, let me help you with that!”

Amelia rushed against the wood-panelled kitchen floor to help Chiara lift the pot onto the hook. She flames almost touched Amelia’s knuckles and she hissed, put only pulled her hands back once the kettle was securely hung. 

“Thank you,” Chiara muttered. “Oh, the father? Yes. He comes home tonight, we hope.”

“You hope?”

“If he can get away. They could let him have a vacation over Christmas.” Chiara began to sit the stew with her long-handled ladle. “Last Christmas he missed his wife so much. This year could be hard too. The boy will be so disappointed.”

“Well, he sounds like a lovin’ father.” Amelia leaned against the counter. “I’m sure he’ll come home.”

The thought made her queasy. Good father or not, Amelia had met more than enough German soldiers to last her a lifetime.

“With the snow. It could be hard.” Chiara quickly went to check the bread in the oven. So much to do, so little time; she’d been rushing about the kitchen all day. “Thank you for the help, Ophèlie.” 

“’Course. ’S’not a problem.” Amelia waved her hand and, seeing the dishes piled in the sink from a day full of cooking, decided to start rinsing and drying. “Where’s Angelo’s father stationed?”

“South in France. By Lyon.”

Amelia’s hands froze under the warm stream and she chewed the inside of her cheek. Lyon. Where Jean Moulin, and so many others, had died. Where  _ she  _ could have died. But she forced herself to respond lightly. “That’s close to where I’d been visitin’ my fiance.”

“Yes. And you were captured.” 

Amelia hesisted. Always so blunt, Chiara was. She still wasn’t used to it. Couldn’t get used to it. “Yes.”

“Why were you in France, Ophelie? You have family in America, yes? They worry, yes?” Chiara took the bread out of the oven and set them on the counter to cool before going back to chop some potatoes Angelo had helped her peel that afternoon. 

Amelia chewed on the dead skin on her upper lip, keeping her eyes focused on the dishes. “I had a small mission, in exchange for seein’ him for a coupla days.”

“And your fiance, he was also an agent?”

_ A true spy, actually.  _ “In the Resistance, actually.”

“Like my Antonio.” Chiara nodded, as if everything was clear now.

“Uh—where, uh, where is he? Antonio, I mean.”

Chiara sniffed. “Taken by the Germans.”

“In Italy?”

Chiara nodded, though Amelia didn’t think she was really listening to her anymore. Like Chiara had said when they first met:  _ It is too bad, this war.  _ And that was just another loss for the poor woman, it seemed. Her mother, her sister, her husband. It was horrible.

Amelia didn’t voice any of this though. Or anything at all. She got the feeling Chiara wouldn’t take kindly to her pity. Even for something like this. She never did. She hated it when people felt sorry for her. Amelia understood that, respected it, and left it at that. 

Behind her the front door opened and closed and Angelo’s voice rose excitedly. 

_ It’s just Gilbert and Tolys.  _ Though, even as she thought it, she realized it was more prayer than prophecy. Out loud, she said, “I’ll go see who it is.”

Chiara nodded, mumbling to herself. 

She strode across the kitchen floor and then—

Her smile froze and she braced herself against the doorframe to keep herself from collapsing onto the floor right then and there.

All she could say is, “You aren’t Gilbert.”

Major Ludwig Beilschmidt stood in the entrance to the front room, his tall frame almost completely blocking out the doorway. Angelo’s chubby little arms wrapped around his father’s neck and Ludwig held onto him as if he were weightless. Angelo squealed into the stiff collar of his uniform. 

They locked eyes and it was as if he could see straight through her.

She should’ve known—she had suspected—but she hadn’t really  _ considered  _ it. Not in any real capacity. But those thoughts had done nothing to lessen the shock of being in such close proximity to the man. And now here he was, less than five feet in front of her. And her heart was already lost to his sweet little son. 

Ludwig chuckled nervously. “Fortunately I’m not quite so old, Ms. Frank.”

Chiara pushed around Amelia, smiling. “Ludwig!” 

She was barely able to kiss one of his cheeks, standing on her tiptoes and careful to keep her dirty hands from his pressed uniform, before she was smothered into his side for warm embrace. 

“Chiara, du siehst so schön aus wie immer.” He kissed her cheek. 

“Wir haben du erst viel später heute Abend erwartet.” 

“I couldn’t wait to see you—and my son.” He smiled at Angelo who hugged him tighter. “He’s happy with you—I can tell.”

“I am too. I love him like my own son.” She pinched Angelo’s side and he burst into giggles. “He is a joy to have.”

“I’m happy to hear that, Chiara. And thank you. For everything.” Ludwig turned his attention back to Amelia, who was frozen in place, eyes wide, as if she’d just witnessed Medusa just stroll in through the front door, and not the owner of the house. 

The plainly  _ obvious  _ owner to the house.

Chiara furrowed her brow. “I did not tell Ophèlie who you were. You asked.”

“Thank you, Chiara.” He kept his eyes trained on Amelia.

Amelia took a tentative step back, eyes flickering from Ludwig to Chiara to Angelo. Her hands shook and her eyes burned. 

She took another step back. Heart racing. Her stomach flopped. A thousand needles stabbed into her skin. She was going to be sick. 

“You weren’t Gilbert,” she croaked.

It sounded  _ so  _ stupid.  _ She  _ was stupid. So, so  _ stupid.  _

The major released Chiara and took a long step towards her—there was almost no space between them anymore. A foot and a half,  _ maybe.  _ He inclined his head politely, as if in greeting. “Mademoiselle.” 

Amelia recoiled from the gesture, from his voice, legs still shaking. She couldn’t stay here—not with  _ him,  _ not in his own  _ house.  _ She needed to run—to get away—even if it meant dying in the snow. Like Arthur had. Ripped full of bullets. Cold. Alone.

“Mutti!” Angelo exclaimed, as if he had just remembered he had the most  _ amazing  _ news. He talked and talked, pointing and squirming in Major Beilschmidt’s arms. Ludwig’s eyes widened before focusing with an increasing interest in Amelia.

Amelia realized what Angelo must be saying—what Ludwig must be thinking as he says it—and how she must look to him. Her face went hot. “God, Major Beilschmidt—I’m sorry—I-I shoulda found a way—”

Chiara stepped in between them. “Ich sagte ihr nicht zu, Ludwig. Der Junge ist einsam genug ohne seinen Vater. Ich dachte, er könnte das Glück gebrauchen.”

Major Beilschmidt nodded thoughtfully. Yet he did nothing to curb Angelo’s enthusiasm. Instead, he ruffled the boy’s hair. “Magst du es, deine Mutter hier zu haben, Angelo? War sie nett zu dir? Wie erinnerst du dich?”

“Ja, ja, ja.”

“Ja, ja, ja?”

“Ja, ja, ja!” Angelo nodded enthusiastically and looked at Amelia. Grinning widely. 

“Drei ganze jas?” Ludwig’s tone was full of warmth and playfulness. “Das muss bedeuten, dass sie sehr gut ist, für drei jas, stimmst du nicht zu?”

“Ja!” Angelo’s legs wiggled in his enthusiasm. “Ja, ja, ja!”

Ludwig laughed—deep and warm and so full of  _ kindness.  _

He turned his attention back on Amelia. Gentle. Amelia squirmed, gripping the chair behind her to keep from trembling, from collapsing. White-knuckled. Like a vice.

“I asked him if he likes having you here.” Soft. Open. Kind. Not even a hint of anger or malice. Even at what felt like it should be such a violation. “He seems to love you very much.”

“You...aren’t angry?” Amelia gasped, teetering on her heels. Everything felt so heavy. So bright. Colours too sharp and too saturated. Spinning. The room was spinning. She was going to throw up.

Ludwig raised his eyebrows. “No, of course not. Should I be?”

The genuine compassion in his voice unnerved her. And only served to make her inner turmoil a whole lot worse. She wasn’t prepared to forgive this man, not even a little but, and— _ dammit _ —if his goodwill only made things worse.

Ludwig gave her a nod before turning back to Chiara. 

Amelia felt a sudden rush of—something. Shame? Embarrassment? Like  _ she  _ had upset  _ him.  _ Which was stupid.  _ So stupid.  _ What had she done wrong? Why should she care anyways, if she had? He was the Nazi. The bad guy. Even if he was saving her, he got himself in this mess. It’s not her job to babysit his emotions. It’s not her job to forgive him, feel sorry for him, any of that. 

Not for his dead wife, not for his lonely son, not for his occupation. Not for anything. She didn’t owe him  _ anything.  _

Amelia turned away and collapsed onto the chair. 

Everything hurt.


	17. SEVENTEEN

It had been Angelo who helped Chiara set the dinner table, chattering away to his aunt as he put down the dishes and silverware around the small square dining table. Butter and goat cheese were played in small bowls in the center and each plate had its assigned cup. Angelo had been very specific about it, choosing each place quite deliberately. He also seemed quite pleased to show his father how grown-up he was becoming, helping his aunt around the house, the way he was. Ludwig, of course, was nothing short of incredibly impressed, and praised Angelo for this achievement endlessly. 

Amelia watched on from the kitchen, flushed and shaking and unsure of what she should do next. Go out there, talk to them? No, that seemed impossible; especially after her initial reaction to Ludwig’s arrival. It would be uncomfortable, awkward, mortifying. And she didn’t want to interrupt this long-awaited, highly-anticipated reunion between father and son. Since day one, Angelo had been telling her about his  _ Vatti,  _ and Chiara had been quick to translate his excitement as well as she could. How terrible would it be if Amelia went out there and said the wrong thing, and completely ruined the atmosphere? If she  _ ever  _ made Angelo cry, that would be the death of her, right then and there. She’d break her own neck from shame. 

Instead she plated the food for Chiara, safe and alone in the confines of the kitchen---a hot, chunky stew with potatoes and small bits of beef and vegetables; soft, cake-like rolls that looked like they should’ve been dessert rather than the rhubarb cake that actually  _ was  _ for dessert (which had also looked incredibly delicious) and roasted mushrooms as a side. It was the biggest meal Amelia had since arriving in France, and it wasn’t even the  _ big meal,  _ which would be had on Christmas Eve. She stayed as quiet as possible, reluctant to even ask Chiara necessary questions about meal preparations. The less attention on her, the  _ better.  _

Too quickly, all of the plates were on the table and Angelo was tugging on her skirt. “Komm schon, Mutti, ich setze mich auch neben dich,” he whined, tugging with all the strength in his little body. 

Amelia sucked in her cheeks. Sit. He wanted to sit, and he probably wanted her to sit with him. She smiled down at him. “’Course, munchkin. I’ll be right over.”

She rinsed off her hands and thoroughly dried them before turning to follow Angelo out of the kitchen. Maybe she should clean up a little bit before she went to sit down, but no. She wouldn’t know where to put anything and what Chiara might still need for dinner, and she should just go sit down. She was just putting off the inevitable, and all it was going to do was give her more time to overthink everything, more time for her to get emotional and volatile, more time for her to make things go bad. She should just sit down. 

Angelo ran over to pull on her hand impatiently. “Komm, setzen wir uns! Ich habe Hunger!”

Amelia shook her head---shook away all of her thoughts, her doubts, her fears. Shook it all away. Forced herself to smile again. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’. Don’t you go worryin’ your li’l head off of your shoulders now.”

She followed the boy into the dining room. Multiple paintings covered the walls, beautiful and vibrant and classical. A street in Rome; a young woman reading a book by herself next to a river, underneath the shade of a blossoming apple tree; a man, standing next to a window, tall and dark-haired, with a rakish smile and warm brown eyes, wearing some sort of military uniform. Such confident brush strokes and rich, full colours and so intricately detailed. She’d seen the paintings multiple times since coming to live here, but she was enchanted every single time. They were gorgeous.

“My sister was a painter,” Chiara had told her on the second day there, when she had caught Amelia ogling them. “She painted since she was small and until the day she died.”

“They’re beautiful,” was all Amelia could say.

“They are. A perfect reflection of the artist.” Chiara had smiled softly at that and turned to look at Amelia. “You like them?”

“They’re amazing.” What else was Amelia supposed to say? They were beautiful, far beyond any talent Amelia had ever possessed, and they had been painted by a dead woman---Chiara’s dead sister. It would be wrong to say anything otherwise. “Absolutely amazing.”

“Yes. She had a gift.” Chiara had stared at the painting of the man distantly. Forlorn. “That is my father. Colonello Romulus Vargas. He was so proud of her, always.”

There was an edge to her voice, but Amelia didn’t pry. It wasn’t any of her business. And, anyway, Chiara was fairly transparent with her; she would tell her what she wanted her to know. And Amelia didn’t mind that. 

“Me, as well. He was proud when I went to school to be a nurse.” Chiara sat down and Amelia sat down next to her. This had become something they’d done often; sitting and talking; telling the other little bits and pieces about their pasts, but never the full story.

“That  _ is  _ really impressive.” Amelia studied Chiara carefully---her long, dark eyelashes and muddy green eyes and her hair, which was sometimes perfectly black and sometimes a rich shade of dark brown. “You must be a really selfless person.”

“I do not know. But I did what I wanted to do.” Chiara frowned slightly. “And so did my sister. And though I was happy for her---I am now too---if she had stayed in Rome and did not go to Paris, she would not be dead.” 

Amelia hadn’t asked anymore questions after that; too personal, she supposed. She just stared at the portrait of Colonello Romulus Vargas. He had Chiara’s eyes and dark hair and strong jaw. And then a dimpled smile and arched eyebrows and a straight nose. Incredibly handsome. Which made sense, considering Chiara. It still made sense now, considering the photograph of Chiara’s little sister---Ludwig’s wife---she had seen. Even in black-and-white, she had been so heartbreakingly beautiful. It was hard to imagine a real person looking like that, walking around.  _ Existing.  _

Married to a Nazi. 

Angelo patted a seat next to him, offering Amelia a seat, pulling Amelia from her thoughts. She had stood so still, staring into space; it was a wonder no one was staring at her like she was insane as she took her seat. 

“Ich will zwischen dir und Vatti sitzen,” Angelo whispered loudly. “So kann ich mit euch beiden zusammen sein.” 

Ludwig took his seat on Angelo’s other side, and Angelo quickly turned to re-explain, once again whispering loudly, what their seating arrangements were and why. Ludwig chuckled and gave Amelia a quick, albeit slightly apologetic, smile over Angelo’s head. “Was für eine wunderbare Idee, meine Kleine.” 

Chiara took her seat after setting down a pitcher of iced water and clasped her hands for grace. The rest of the table followed suit. As usual, she said the prayer (which Amelia quite enjoyed; listening to her speak Italian was absolutely gorgeous, like singing). 

“Benedici, o Signore, e questi, i Tuoi doni, che stiamo per ricevere dalla Tua bontà. Per Cristo, nostro Signore. Amen.” 

It was lucky, she supposed, that Angelo had insisted on sitting between Amelia and Ludwig. At least she didn’t have to look at him, for the most part. Yet, for some reason, she found herself stealing glances at the major from her peripheral. He was in his casual clothing, in a white shirt and suspenders, dark pants and his hair uncharacteristically untidy. She’d never seen him in his casual clothing before, she realized, though it wasn’t that surprising. But it piqued her interest nonetheless; seeing a German officer in their dwelling, in his natural habitat, was not something most people with the Allies would ever witness. Not that Ludwig Beilschmidt was really all that comparable to most other Nazis, not from what she could see, but still. A rare occurrence. Like the planets all aligning or something. 

She didn’t have to talk; she was allowed to just eat in silence, uncomfortable and brooding. The food was good, if not a little spicy, and Blitzer waited behind Ludwig’s seat, tail thumping against the floor. (He would sneak the dog a little bit of meat whenever he thought Chiara wasn’t looking, and Chiara pretended she didn’t notice). Not that Ludwig wasn’t courteous and polite, but he also didn’t exactly try to include her in the conversation. Perhaps he’d noticed she really wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. 

After a few minutes he turned towards her and explained that because Chiara struggled with French, they would be speaking in German---would that offend her, would she be okay, they don’t  _ have  _ to. And of course, she said that it was fine---she needed listening practise anyway. 

And so her silence became complete.

She could tell Chiara was  _ delighted  _ to have her brother-in-law home. As she talked, she was enthusiastic, animated---her face was full of expression and her hands moved erratically in large, sweeping movements. It was absolutely fascinating to watch her face change, the rise and fall of her voice, the gestures she would make for emphasis. And Major Beilschmidt, of course, seemed to have a multitude of questions for her, and from the talk of “Amerika” and “das Mädchen,” “die Spionin” and “die Gafangene,” they  _ must  _ be talking about her a good portion of the time.  _ How is she? How are things going? Were they getting along well? Is she any trouble? _ Et cetera, et cetera. 

It was uncomfortable, disturbing, annoying---all of it---knowing that she was being discussed so plainly, right in front of her, as if she weren’t even there. It was reaffirming, though---she was a prisoner. Major Beilschmidt’s prisoner. The fact that she got to stay in his house be damned; she was just as much a prisoner here as she had been in the chateau. As she had been when she was first captured. 

It was stifling, that discomfort. Choking and pressing; she felt like she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. She was a  _ prisoner.  _ She was  _ captured.  _ Arthur is  _ dead.  _ And here she was, having dinner with the man behind it all, like it was  _ nothing.  _ Like they were  _ old friends.  _ Like he  _ wasn’t  _ a murderer. 

She tried to take another spoonful of stew but her stomach flopped. She was going to be sick. She was going to pass out. She couldn’t breathe. She was going to die. 

Her hand shook. Suspended in air. 

_ What the hell was she doing here? _

She needed to get out, to leave. Run. She needed space. A place to think. 

Alone. She needed to be alone. She was burning all over. She needed to be alone. Think. Alone. Away. Run. Leave. Out.

_ Boche.  _

Out. She needed  _ out.  _

She spoke before her thoughts could catch up with the words pouring out of her mouth. “May I be excused?”

Ludwig said, “Of course,” as Chiara reminded her that just because Angelo had to ask didn’t mean she did. She was a grown woman, after all.

A grown woman, she said. A prisoner is all Amelia heard.

Amelia took her dishes to the sink, scrubbed, rinsed, dried and put them away. Neat in their cabinets. Chiara always kept her home so neat, so organized. 

Not her home. Major Beilschmidt’s.

It had been his home this whole time.

Amelia was an idiot. 

From the dining room there was laughter. 

_ They’re not laughing at me. This isn’t high school.  _ But Amelia still couldn’t fully shake the feeling. She was stupid, an idiot, a complete fool. How could they not laugh? She would laugh, if it was any other person. She would laugh until she cried. 

Out. Think. 

She still needed to think.

She didn’t bother to put on a jacket as she went outside, leaving through the kitchen door. Blitzer had followed her (she hadn’t noticed), panting, tail wagging---for the first time leaving Ludwig’s feet to do  _ anything  _ else, except for eating. Amelia pat him on the head in greeting as he continued to follow her, like a duckling after its mother, to the workshop. No one used the workshop. She’d be alone there. Privacy. Think. That’s all she needed. Wanted. Even when Amelia wanted to throw herself a pity party, she couldn’t say no to a dog, and so she let him follow after her. 

She felt so hot and stifled from her discomfort, her embarrassment, she didn’t even notice how absolutely  _ freezing cold  _ it was. The frigid air was just a relief. 

Inside the shop a fine layer of dust coated every available surface, but it still smelled familiar, like sawdust and citrus polish, even with the strong stench of must that came from disuse. The workbench held an assortment of clock pieces in various stages of completion. Moonlight filtered through ragged curtains, reflecting off the polished surfaces of several Kuckucksuhren hanging on the wall---apparently, according to Chiara, they’d been sent by Mr Laurinaitis to be sold in the market. Because of the war, she had lamented, they most likely wouldn’t bring in much---maybe some coal, flour, a few cups of sugar. Chiara would be grateful, however, for anything she was able to barter. 

Amelia trembled. Shook. She felt so weightless and so heavy, so aware, and yet she felt like she was having an out-of-body experience. Like she was watching herself. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t run, couldn’t even move. Frozen solid, like a block of ice. Couldn’t even get her thoughts to go running. Wouldn’t be any running. Not like this. Not when she couldn’t speak and tears blinded her and she felt like she was going to scream through she sobs that tore her chest, ripped apart her sternum. Left her feeling light-headed and weak. 

She collapsed against the wall, slid down onto the floor, face buried in her hands. Dark hair fell around her face. Not her hair. Not hers at all. Foreign. Wrong. Everything here was just  _ so wrong.  _ Her breathing grew increasingly erratic, her heartbeat unsteady and uncertain. Couldn’t be right. None of this. 

A dream? No. Still felt real. Never felt this deeply in her dreams; her imagination wasn’t that vivid. Wasn’t that creative. So, not a dream. Real life. Hallucinations? No. The Army checked. Completely mentally stable.  _ Then.  _ But this is now. After watching Arthur die, after being a prisoner. After France. 

Blitzer rested his head on her shoulder, sensing her distress, and gave her a few wet, sloppy licks on her cheek.

Painful. Everything was so painful. Aching. Screaming. Or was it her screaming?

The door swung open and Blitzer was gone, trotting away to sit at his master’s heels. His shadow was long, stretched all the way across the floor, over Amelia. Dark. It was dark. Everything was dark. Everything hurt. Was she screaming? She couldn’t tell. Sobbing. She was sobbing. Tears burned rivers down her cheeks, clogged her throat. Couldn’t breathe.

Was gonna die. 

Couldn’t breathe and gonna die. 

And  _ he  _ was here. Watching. He was  _ watching her.  _

Couldn’t see his face, but she knew. Satisfaction. He'd kept her here, kept her all locked up. Kept her away from the Résistance. He won. She lost. 

Gonna die.

Killed her already. Wasn't enough for him. Gonna die again anyway.

Breathe. Couldn't. 

Stand up. 

Didn't want to do this sitting down. Crying. Sniveling. Pathetic. Child. 

She was a child. Felt like it. Couldn't help it. Acted it. 

More tears, stinging her ice-bitten cheeks as they fell. Shaking. 

She really should have known. He would never leave her alone. 

Major Beilschmidt stood just inside, door closed behind him, hand on his dog's head. Watching. Waiting. Couldn't see his face but she knew.  _ She knew.  _

Amelia stood up, hands shaking, balling into chapped fists. Couldn't focus on much—couldn't  _ see.  _ Too many thoughts. Too much anger. Too many tears.

Everything blurred and tilted. Hate. She hated him. 

She walked forward. Shaking. Swaying. Tears streaming. Nose running. Insane. She looked insane. 

If the boy she laid flat in high school for harassing one of her friends in high school was any indication, Amelia had a mean right hook, and now she pulled her fist back. Didn't matter if she got in trouble. Thrown out. Would be worth it. 

Her fist never reached him: Ludwig's hand curled around her fist in an iron grip, just inches away from his face. His stupid jaw. Stupid eyes. Stupid nose. 

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid.  _

“Amelia.” His voice was soft. 

“You killed him. You  _ killed him! _ ” With her free hand, Amelia began pummeling his chest with her fist. Beating. Striking down. Hard as she could.  _ “Let me go!” _

“You know I can't do that.” Pleading. Probing.  _ Please, try to understand me.  _

Amelia's sobs scraped her throat raw. Her chest ached. Lungs burned from overexertion. Eyes felt dry and wet all at once. “Let me  _ go!  _ Please! My father—I wanna see my dad an’—”

“Amelia.” Still so calm. No anger. Yelling. Fighting. None of that. Just sympathy. Gentleness. Patience. Hated that—she  _ hated  _ that. “I can't let you go back and you know that. At least not yet. I thought Gilbert told you.”

So calm. Amelia didn't want calm. She wanted a  _ fight.  _ Screaming. Yelling. Throwing things. She wanted to pull out her hair, wanted to hit. Fists to meet flesh. Tired of just sitting. Restless. Tired of just floating. Just existing. 

Tired of being the one to lose her cool. Wanted Ludwig to get angry. Undone. All wound up, just to fall apart. 

Amelia's lip curled. Venom felt hot on her tongue. “You shoulda left me with Dresdner. I'd rather take my chances with him than be here with you—than  _ this _ .”

She hoped it cut. Ripped through him like bullets. Hoped he bled and  _ hurt.  _ Felt just as  _ shit  _ as she did. Stung like a thousand bees. Like an arrow piercing his heart. 

She glared at him through watery eyes, salt falling on her lips. Down her blotchy, red-and-purple face. “There's  _ nothin’ _ he could do that'd hurt worse than—”

The major's face was smooth. Unwounded—visibly. Unaffected. Patient. 

“You have no idea of what he would do to you.” He gently put her fist to her chest and released it. “And Arthur loved you. He would have—”

Amelia took a ragged, unsteady breath, hand shaking against her chest. “Don't talk ’bout what kinda man Arthur was. What he woulda and would not have wanted. You don't know the  _ first  _ thing ’bout him.”

Ludwig raised up a hand, as if to reach, before quickly dropping it back to his side. “Maybe not, but what I  _ do  _ know is that he would have wanted just about  _ anything  _ for you over Dresdner.”

“He  _ just  _ wanted this whole damn war to be  _ over, _ ” she whispered. Frail. Broken. Fragile.

“He would have been disappointed.” Ludwig's tone was still calm and gentle: wasn't trying to be argumentative.

Amelia shook her head. “I'm not stupid, okay? I know Germany's strong—you're aggressive and self-confident. Think'll be able to hold off anything we throw at you an’ still keep your footin’ in France.”

“That's not what I mean,” Ludwig said quickly. Maybe a bit sharply. But still—calm. 

“Tell me the truth, Major.” Amelia held her wrist against her chest, raised her chin. Looked him straight in the eye. “Why'm I here?”

Ludwig shifted his feet, but his gaze stayed steady. Strong. On her face. “I cannot just let you continue to operate as an agent in France, Amelia Jones. Nor can I release you to the Allies so you can share everything you know about us. Both would be very irresponsible on my part.”

Ludwig shook his head, wetting his lips. Nervous. Uncomfortable. Amelia had never seen that before. Never seen him so vulnerable. 

“But I also would never allow someone do important to Arthur Kirkland get hurt. Not after all he's done for me.”

She backed away, suddenly dizzy. “You knew Arthur?”

She sounded so small. Trembling. Her words cut like tin on her mouth. 

“He would have done this for me.” His chin was tilted down. Submissive. “He would have expected the same from me.”

“And so you've known Arthur all this time, an’ jus’ lemme go on an’ on ’bout him? An’ didn't think for a  _ second  _ that'd wanna hear ’bout this?” She shook her head, laughing bitterly. “Incredible. You're incredible.”

Ludwig flinched. Cut. Good. 

“I wanted to know...if he was important to you. At least as much as you were to him.”

“So you were testin’ my love for my  _ fiancé _ ?” Amelia laughed again. Erratically. Shocked. In complete disbelief. “You're unbelievable, Major Beilschmidt.”

“I did tell you I needed time to decide, did I not?”

“But that's not fair, Major, an’ you  _ know  _ it.” 

“I never said it was. But it was  _ necessary _ .”

She folded her arms across her chest. “An’ what ’bout your wife? Angelo's mother? You never told me she was dead.”

“It's none of your business, Amelia.” Ludwig frowned slightly. “Why would I have told you such a thing?”

Amelia's gaze dropped to her feet, fire extinguished. Snow melted in droplets over her light brown boots. She suddenly realized how cold it was out there, without a coat and with elbow-length sleeves. And she felt absolutely  _ exhausted.  _ Too tired to even keep up the  _ pretense _ of wanting to fight. All she wanted was a nap. To lay down and sleep, never get up. 

“It bothers me that you talk ’bout the man you _murdered_ as if you knew him. But if you _did_—that jus’ makes you worse, honestly.” She stepped out of his reach, studying him. Ready to dodge if he lunged. 

Ludwig didn't. He let her have her space. 

“Arthur Kirkland had been—a friend of mine. And my wife. Amelia.” He shrugged helplessly. At a loss. “But he was at the wrong place at the wrong time and my men responded exactly as they were trained to. It was—was unfortunate.”

“So you justify his murder than eulogize him as a saint?” Amelia snapped. Glaring. Eyes roaring, a wildfire capable of wiping whole towns off the map. “So, you're a hypocrite, too?”

“Arthur knew the risks, Amelia. He didn't care.”

Amelia shoved past him and Ludwig made no attempt to stop her. Just followed her quietly, at a respectable distance, back into the house. 

She felt guilty. Stupidly guilty. About what she had said, had just laughed at him and left him. But Arthur's dead weight was still heavy on net lap and his blood still seeped into her clothes and pooled in the snow. She couldn't bear to talk about him any longer—least of all, with Ludwig. 

Chiara Vargas had been concerned when Amelia brushed past her with the tears still wet on her cheeks and she had shot Ludwig an accusatory question in rapid Italian. Ludwig's reply was curt and Amelia felt a strange relief. Much as she respected Chiara, their conversation wasn't any of her business. She didn't need to know any of it.

She was just glad Ludwig agreed. 

  
  



	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, you can really tell which parts I wrote a couple years ago, and which parts I wrote now, can't you? This is one from a couple years ago, and I think it reads it more than any of them. I don't completely hate this chapter—my current revisions have definitely improved it's quality greatly, but goddamn René. Get some talent, yo.
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the delay. Life got in the way.
> 
> Still unedited, unbeta'd, so I apologize in advance. Also, it's awfully long for such a subpar chapter, but there was nowhere else to fit this exposition without completely halting the second act, so here we go.

_ 24 December 1943 _

_ Early morning—about 2:07 am _

The tree scraped against Amelia's window as she read by candlelight. A children's book, with lots of colours and pictures, in a desperate attempt to improve her German for Angelo's benefit and her own. All of the words were still frustratingly meaningless and all bled together and she was ready to throw her book across the room in frustration. Burrow herself under the blankets. Never come out.

Tears still felt sticky across her cheeks. She still felt cold. Freezing. Even with the comforter and the candle and her window shut and curtains down. Freezing. 

She set aside her book, frowning. Freezing. So freezing. She slipped out of bed to check her window. Still latched tightly, nice and shut. She pulled the curtains tighter. Praying that it would be enough to trap the heat. Protect her from frostbite and hypothermia. 

Dramatic, maybe. But that was apparently a real fear for them, out here in the cold. 

That's when she heard footsteps, leading down the hallway. Light, pitter-pattering. She almost didn't notice. 

Angelo. Had to be Angelo.

Curious, Amelia slipped out from under the warmth of her comforter (when had she gotten back into bed? Couldn't remember) and tiptoed to the door of her room. The hallway was empty, long and dark, but she could hear the staircase creaking. Angelo had made a habit of wandering around the house listlessly before he found his way to the washroom and had taken a tumble on more than one occasion, apparently. So Amelia went to assist him to the washroom and back to bed. Maybe sing a lullaby. 

The living room was really silent, save the heavy ticking of the Kuckucksuhr. From the stairs she could see him huddled on a pitiful heap on the couch and silently to herself. 

_ Tick. _

_ Tock. _

Amelia descended the stairs, careful to avoid putting too much weight on the stairs to keep it from creaking. The living room was massive and black below her. There was no moonlight. 

Freezing.

Her feet were freezing on the hardwood floor.

As she approached the couch, she realized the silhouette was much too large for a young boy. Her heart lept into her throat and she hesitated. 

_ Oh, God. _

The form shifted and Amelia stumbled back, pulse racing. The solid black mass moved towards her—darted, lunged, it felt—uncurling from the couch at an intimidating height. Amelia backed and backed and backed, bringing her arms to her face, trembling, scream stuck like a dry slice of bread in her throat.

Her heel caught on the staircase and Amelia hit the floor, scraping her elbows, snapping her neck back. 

_ Oh God, oh God, oh God— _

The shook pathetically where she had fallen. Couldn't possibly stand, her legs were melting. Gripping her hair in her fists. It was all she could do, to watch the man approach her smoothly, more predator than human, until he was close. Less than a yard away. So close. 

“Oh God…”

She saw his eyes and screamed. 

Captain Bernard Dresdner reached for her, pale eyes filling her vision. The stairs behind her were impossible to climb. Slippery. Like they were coated with ice. Callused hands closed around her throat and squeezed. 

Amelia couldn't scream. Just pulled and clawed at his wrists. Kicking her feet out into his shins and knees. He squeezed harder, harder, harder, cutting off her windpipe and pushing her back uncomfortably into the staircase. 

A voice came through, murky, like she was underwater. Her name. 

_ Amelia? Amelia? Amelia? _

She choked, trying to answer it.  _ I'm here. Dresdner is here! _

“Amelia?”

Amelia's heartbeat picked up. The living room was bright, and smaller than it was just a second ago.

“Amelia!” The voice was closer now, gentler now, despite the panic. “It's alright, Amelia.”

Suddenly there were no longer any hands around her throat and she could breathe. She was clawing at her own chest, hard enough to leave long, angry, red welts. When she opened her eyes (weren't they already open?) it was Ludwig's gentle blue eyes instead of Dresdner's dead ones.

“Look at me.” So gentle, warm, comforting. Kind. Concerned. “Look at me, Amelia. Look at me. It's just me.”

He was crouching down in front of her, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “It's just me.”

Amelia nodded weakly. 

The major pulled her up off of the the stairs, into his chest. Stroking her hair lightly. Protective.

“Dresdner…” Amelia faltered as Ludwig scooped her up into a sitting position, and wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. She blinked rapidly as she adjusted to the new light. They were alone and Ludwig's heart beat against his ribs next to her ear. It wasn't freezing. Not even a little. “He-he was sittin’, sittin' on-on the couch an’ he...then he…”

Ludwig smoothed the hair at the back of her head, long fingers combing deftly through the tangles. “He's made quite the impression on you, I see.”

Amelia face felt hot. “It was just a dream. Sorry I woke you…”

She really hoped he didn't think any less of her—more than he likely already did—for having a nightmare like a lost little girl. After her outburst last night. After her everything. So weak and stupid. She was so weak.  _ So stupid _ . 

“No need.” The major lifted her easily and carried her to the couch, cradling her as if she actually  _ were  _ a small child. He had turned on a lamp and the fire cast them in a warm, golden-red glow. Crackling. Warm. “Dresdner's a depraved man, Amelia. What he did to you would haunt anybody's dreams.”

Amelia finally regained some of her composure and looked up at him. His hair was ruffled and unkempt (she pointedly ignored how well it suited his features) and his tunic was only half-buttoned up his chest. Another detail for her to very pointedly ignore. 

She raised her eyebrows. “You really did think I was gonna escape, didn't you?”

He almost smiled, his mouth twisting into a half-shadow of a smile. “I had my suspicions, but then I saw you swaying and heard you scream and…” He shrugged, nonchalant. As if this was all completely normal. “Well, obviously, it had not been the case.”

Amelia's chest blossomed. Flustered. Indignant. Defensive. “Sometimes Angelo needs help goin' to the bathroom—he wanders, y'know? An’ I—an’ I don't wanna see him hurt or…”

She shook her head, laughing in a semi-hysterical manner that scraped the inside of her throat and made herself flinch. Angelo was  _ his  _ son, not hers. Why wouldn't he have known that already?

Stupid. She's so stupid. 

“I understand,” Ludwig said calmly. Simply. There was no accusations in his voice. Just comfort, like a downy duvet after a long day of work, wrapping her up in warmth. 

She met his gaze—blue eyes hectic and bright with a turbulence of emotions, like a stormy sea. Emotions that seemed to smoulder just underneath his skin. Her heartbeat stuttered as he caressed her hair with the tips of his fingers, gentle and feather-light. She hated that she felt no revulsion to his touch, that she leaned into it. He was so warm and gentle, solid. 

_ You're his prisoner.  _

Amelia flushed with shame and quickly brought her gaze back down. She couldn't look at him. Not with the way her heart hammered in her chest and his thumped against her ear like the beat of a drum, so steady and strong against his chest. In his haste, he'd gotten the wrong buttons. 

“If I tried to escape, what would you do?”

“I'd advise against it,” Ludwig said carefully. “At least, not in this sort of weather. You'd freeze to death before you reached town.”

He was matter-of-fact. She would die; and he did not want her to. For whatever reason. 

“’Snot what I said, Major.” Amelia's jaw convulsed, teeth grinding. “What would you  _ do _ ?”

A beat of silence. 

“Bring you back,” Ludwig said. As if it should've been obvious. 

It probably was. 

“What if I asked you to let me go?” Amelia pressed, pulse thrumming in her wrists, cheeks blazing. This could be her chance. “Promised not to harm you—or your family—in anyway?”

The major was merciful. He had kindness in him. And he had apparently known Arthur somehow—they were friends, despite it all. Maybe he would show her pity, generosity, goodness. Leniency. Maybe he'd allow her to leave. He was a good man at heart, Amelia was sure of it. A good man would not want to keep an innocent as a prisoner. 

Major Beilschmidt's face was sober—pensive. He seemed to be mulling over his words, deliberately looking away from her and at the ceiling. He took maybe three minutes to consider what he would say, and yet he still seemed unsure. Lost.

“Amelia…” He closed his eyes and exhaled. The moments ticked by. Amelia's throat squeezed—her name sounded so pretty in his voice, in that soft shadow of an accent, enunciating letters she never would have thought of—like music, a poetical cadence. “Sometimes personal feelings must be set aside.”

Still so careful, like he was tip-toeing around broken glass. Snow fell against the window, and Amelia watched the patterns it made. She ignored the part about his feelings; didn't even want to  _ think  _ about what that could have possibly meant.

“I know.” They did have to be, in times like these. It was a necessity. But that still didn't answer  _ why she was there.  _

“And so you know that your soldiers would shoot me on sight? So what about Angelo? Don't you think I want to be able to be with my son again?”

Amelia stared blankly. She didn't follow. But she didn't dare dissuade him from responding. Perhaps a heart-to-heart would soften him; and he'd allow her to leave. 

Or at least she'd know more about him. 

“Of course,” she finally said. “You love him.”

“I would do anything to protect my son, Amelia.” His arms we rigid around her and her name no longer felt like flowers blooming inside her heart—no, it was vines, suffocating her. “You have to understand that.”

Amelia chewed on her cheek. Debating was something she was supposed to be good at—her wit was her greatest strength, not that she felt it at that moment. But it was something she'd lived for, before all of this, debating philosophy and ethics and law with her peers, flexing her knowledge of John Locke and Thomas Hobbes and Machiavelli and Montesquieu, for all the sexist nay-sayers to hear. It's why she had planned on going into law after the war was over—and she had married Arthur…

She was overthinking when she should be speaking. Talking was something she was good at and did often. So she did now. 

“Angelo's wonderful. Hell, I'd probably just as soon die for him, if it came down to it.” She swallowed to clear her throat. “But you're arguing that, by doing  _ anything  _ for him, the ends justify the means. An’, accordin’ to  _ you _ , that's a very Gestapo rationale to have.”

His grip on her tightened. Heartbeat picked up. “Are you really trying to compare me to Dresdner right now?”

Amelia sniffed. “You seem to follow a similar logic.”

Ludwig chuckled deliriously. “Good  _ Lord,  _ Amelia Jones. You are something else.”

Amelia glowered up at him, though she supposed it wouldn't have the same impact with her cheek pressed against his shoulder and her body curling into his torso. 

Her eyes flew wide and her cheeks scorched. “I'm...fine, by the way. Don't need you to...uh, y'know, anymore…”

“Ah, yes. Right. Sorry.” He released her from the cage of his arms and she slid down to sit next to him on the couch, knees knocking against his. Hesitantly, he brushed a stray curl from her face and Amelia averted her gaze, feeling hot. “I try to be a good man, Amelia.”

“I–I know you do.” She felt rotten, though she couldn't he sure exactly why. “But I don't understand why then...Why you'd give your blind devotion to such a-a…”

Ludwig used a gentle hand to tilt her face up. His expression was dark and steely and guarded and Amelia knew she was taking this much too far, but she couldn't stop herself. She really couldn't. 

“I am  _ what _ , Amelia?” His voice was unnervingly calm. 

“Forget it,” she muttered, trying to avert her gaze; but she couldn't. Not with his eyes probing her face for an answer, for her thoughts, with his brows furrowed and lips pressed. His state seemed to pull the answer out of her, like a fish on a line, and she couldn't stop herself before the words were tumbling through her stupid, big mouth: “How can you see Hitler as anything but  _ vile _ ?”

Ludwig's walls flickered as he almost flinched—she saw the way the corners of his mouth drew downwards, the strain in his gaze. Amelia's heart thudded unevenly, loudly, unhelpfully.

Ludwig's response didn't come immediately—he wet his lips and sucked in his cheeks. Pensive. And when he did finally answer, after what felt like a thousand years as the seconds ticked by, and when he did, his voice was tight. “It is different here, than what you are used to. I am not always permitted to...do...exactly as I wish.”

_ What is it you wish to do then, huh? _

“But you must understand my confusion, Major Beilschmidt…” Amelia chewed on the inside of her cheek, tasting metal, and the tension weighted against her chin like a metric tonne of cement. Suffocating. Pressing.

Ludwig didn't respond. He looked at something, just over her shoulder, thoughtful. Brow creased and frowning, and Amelia couldn't help but notice how cute he was, when he was deep in thought—the way he pursed his lips, and his eyes glazed over. Just in another world entirely. 

Finally, he spoke. “You must be tired, Amelia.” 

Amelia blinked rapidly. “Ludwig, I—” 

“You should really get back to bed.” Ludwig stood up. “We both should.”

“But I…” Ludwig offered her a large, callused hand, so gentlemanly and chivalrous. Amelia ignored his offer, and stood up herself, smoothing down her nightgown. She smiled to herself as Ludwig muttered something to himself.

“Good night, Amelia.”

“Back at you, Major.”

***

Amelia had not been aware that Germans put up their Christmas tree on the day  _ of,  _ so it had been a surprise, needless to say, when Chiara had come to wake her up early that morning to help get ready for the tree. She had just assumed, like so many things, trees had become something like obsolete during the war, and no one had done anything to suggest her to otherwise.

Chiara was dressed quite handsomely, her long dark curls pinned at top her head in a halo of dark chocolate, curls brushing high cheekbones, and pearled clips shining stark against the satiny background. Under her apron, she wore a plain, yet distinctly flattering, navy dress, and her nice church stockings darkened her legs. 

“It is Christmas Eve,” Chiara had said when Amelia had complimented her on, but she seemed pleased.

Chiara had hummed to herself as she prepared breakfast and Amelia dusted carefully around the house. Outside the window, Ludwig Beilschmidt, an exuberant Angelo squirming in his shoulders, pulling a Christmas tree behind him, both bundled up in scarves, hats and mittens that Mrs. Laurinaitis had apparently knit for them the year before. Amelia's heart felt like stone; it was like a scene from a postcard. 

As she boys approached, Amelia inspected her reflection in a silver plate—to assure herself her dark brown wig was still properly pinned, her makeup in place and unblemished, her lavender dress still clean and wrinkle-free. Satisfied that she was still presentable, she hurried to store the duster away and pushed down any of those rebellious thoughts that she was excited to see more than just Angelo. 

It was just the Christmas spirit getting to her; nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. 

Angelo knocked into her legs almost as soon as she front door opened; he pulled on her skirt, snow tracking his trail behind him. “Tannenbaum, Mutti! Tannenbaum!”

“He's telling you we have the Christmas tree.” Ludwig beamed down at his son as if the boy was the whole world to him. “He said, earlier, he said he wants you to put the angel on top this year.”

Amelia chuckled, pulling the small boy up in her arms. He was still damp with snow, but that was hardly any matter at all. “What a great honour. I shall perform it diligently, my liege.”

“It really is, for him. He's been going on about how I had to hold him  _ very, incredibly  _ high for him to be able to put it on last year.”

Amelia laughed again and rubbed her nose against Angelo's. The boy squealed and shrieked and threw his arms around her neck. 

Ludwig studied her, his eyes seeming to trail up and down her body. Taking her in. 

Amelia's ears pinkened. “You—you won't try that with me, right?”

“Not unless you want me to.” He gave her a cheesy grin, the sort that belonged on a Charlie Chaplin movie poster, and it somehow reminded Amelia disturbingly of Gilbert. 

Chiara emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands off on her apron, saving Amelia from having to find a way to respond to that, that didn't leave her a blush, stuttering mess. Rather than scolding the boys for the snow on her nicely mopped and swept hardwood floor (though she did thin her lips at it) she stopped to admire the tree Ludwig was currently leaning against the corner of the room.

“Mein Gott, das ist so groß, dass du ein bisschen von der Spitze abschneiden musst, meinst du nicht?” 

Ludwig nodded as he pulled the tree into a standing position, nodding as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Du hast Recht, es ist eine große für das Haus, vielleicht ein paar Zentimeter von oben...?

He reached for the shears which Chiara had earlier instructed Amelia to place on the fireplace after scolding her for leaving it on Ludwig's armchair (there was always stuff on it—she hadn't thought much of it). 

Angelo was fast, for a toddler—he launched himself from Amelia's arms before she could stop him and ran to tug on Ludwig's sleeve incessantly. “Nein, nein, nein, nein! Vatti!”

Beilschmidt turned to grin at his son. “Was ist los, Liebster?”

“Du hast gesagt, du würdest den Baum nicht fällen! Du hast es versprochen!” Angelo's voice was high and keening; whining. 

Ludwig chuckled. “Aber es passt kaum—”

“Ich finde es schön!” 

“Nun, ein Weihnachtsbaum muss hübsch sein, nicht wahr? Ich nehme an, er kann so bleiben, wie er ist, Schätzchen.” 

Satisfied, Angelo skipped around his father to pluck a wooden soldier from the windowsill. He presented it proudly to Amelia—she clapped lightly, told him it looked very nice—and he bubbled over with excitement. She pulled the boy onto her lap, attempting to play along with him—even through the language barrier, however, Amelia had always been good with kids, and found it relatively easy to keep him entertained.

“My sincerest apologies, Amelia. My son…” It took Amelia a moment to realize that the major was referring from switching from French to German so often, rather than Angelo behaviour—who, aside from drawing on every surface available if you left him unattended for too long and liked to pick at Chiara's bread when no one was looking—did nothing but live up to his name. “I'm sure he'd understand, but I don't want him to feel left out on  _ Christmas _ , of all days.”

Amelia waved him off easily. “Oh, puh- _ lease.  _ He's your  _ son,  _ Major. ’Course I understand, an’ I'm not bothered by it, okay?”

“You're a Godsend, Amelia Jones.”

Amelia felt warm at the compliment; her chest grew flowers and her stomach flopped and fluttered and buzzed with fireflies. Amelia, however, still did her best to not let this show. “Pish-posh.”

His behaviour was so...incongruous—something one could have never expected from a man such as him—that  _ looks  _ like him, anyway. She always expected him to play the role of a proud German officer, and everytime he had shattered her expectations completely. And now, in the privacy of his own home, he was  _ completely _ the opposite from the dark, enigmatic officer who had found her, crouched over Arthur's body in the snow. He treated his son and household—even Amelia—with the utmost respect and deference. He was friendly and helpful to Chiara, and nothing but warm and attentive to his son. Perhaps it was the Christmas spirit, but he still had yet to raise his voice or snap at anyone—again, even with  _ her,  _ which she could hardly comprehend. 

“I'll have the tree strand ready before breakfast, Chiara.” 

“That is good.” Chiara took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. “This tree smells wonderful.”

Amelia raised her eyebrows. “Wait, wait, wait. Won't you be decoratin’ it?”

Ludwig collapsed heavily into his chair, brushing pine needles off of his clothes. “Tonight. You'll help Chiara with the majority of it, but Angelo and I'll light the candles.”

Amelia leaned her cheek against an open palm, lips spreading into a slow, lazy smile. “You use  _ real  _ candles?”

“If you haven't seen it, you haven't  _ really _ celebrated Christmas.” Ludwig grinned at her. “At least, not one  _ worth  _ celebrating?”

“Oh, sure. ’Coure.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You don't believe me?”

“I'll believe it when I see it, Major. No offense.”

“None taken—but I'll be prepared for your full apology in doubting me by midnight, Miss Jones.” He laughed at her exaggerated roll of the eyes. 

“Oh, of course, Major. I haven't forgotten your breed to always be right so soon. No offense, once again.” She smiled at him, so he knew she was only teasing, looking him straight in the eye. 

His eyes were so  _ blue.  _ She'd almost forgotten that—how piercing, how captivating, his gaze was. How beautifully coloured he was, like a Renaissance angel. And he looked just  _ gorgeous  _ when he smiled, so relaxed and happy. 

Her heart thudded and throbbed and she felt a blush creeping up her chest. He was just so  _ perfect,  _ so  _ beautiful _ . It hurt to look at, and yet she couldn't peel her gaze off of him. Couldn't even when she tried to—he was intoxicating, addictive, and left Amelia gaping idiotically in his wake, like a goldfish swimming in confused circles. 

She was so stupid—so, incredibly, awfully, horribly  _ stupid _ —for being so enraptured with his charm, his looks, his family. But damn, she couldn't help herself. He may have the enemy—a murderer, a cog in the well-oiled machine of Nazi Germany, just another player in Hitler's games—but, God, he was  _ just so beautiful.  _

They must've been sitting, just staring at each other, smiling, for only a few minutes, but it felt like  _ hours.  _ More than hours—days or months or years. A lifetime. Amelia felt lost, trapped,  _ so gone _ —his eyes were a dizzying shade of blue, the kind that left her breathless, and his grin was charming and boyish. Her face suddenly reddened and she looked away, stomach all fluttery in a way that she hated. 

The major continued to stare for a few seconds longer—betraying nothing but his joy. 

Then he stood up, turned to face the still-playing Angelo. “Nun, Angelo, was sagst du dazu, auf dem Baumständer von Tante Chiara anzufangen.”

Angelo shrieked with excitement avs threw himself into Ludwig's waiting arms (Ludwig stumbled only slightly when catching him). 

Ludwig nodded at Amelia as he passed her, legs almost brushing against her knees. She watched him leave the house, heart still hammering. 

***

Chiara put her to work pretty quickly—sweep and mop the floors again, do another dust-over of the house, clean the upstairs windows, scrub the bathtubs and sinks upstairs. Get extra firewood—and, oh, don't forget to beat the rugs and pillows. 

Amelia didn't mind the work, though it was a lot. None of her jobs were necessarily hard—she would've had a lot worse time cooking breakfast the way Chiara could (which smelled delicious, by the way) with such scant resources, not to mention her general lack of culinary skills—and though her hands would get raw from scrubbing and mopping, it was a good distraction. It gave her something to do; made her feel useful. Less like she was playing house, which eased her guilty conscience. 

What Francis think if he saw her now, scrubbing the sinks and folding the laundry of the Nazi who killed her fiancé, his best friend? She'd be no better than a  _ collabo, _ hardly above a German  _ whore,  _ and she knew it. That's how she felt, who she saw when she looked in the mirror. She couldn't blame anyone else for the thought. 

Even though she  _ wasn't.  _ It wasn't like she was getting special treatment—she was a prisoner, a housemaid, at best. Couldn't even talk to her father, or at least let him know she was alive, and not being tortured. Well, not  _ physically _ , at least. And, God—she'd never give up the little she knew of the Résistance. Not Francis Bonnefoy's true identity or his whereabouts; not their Belley safehouse. Not  _ anything.  _

And yet, here she was, still feeling so guilty, so treacherous—as if that's  _ exactly  _ what she'd done. 

She washed the grime caked under her fingernails, scrubbed her face raw with a rag, and took special care to make sure her wig had remained perfectly in place, and no blonde hair had escaped their confines. The house was pretty close to clean—all the was left was just some general, last-minute cleaning.

“Who's comin' over, Chiara? The Queen of France?” She'd laughed, kept her tone light—it was a joke and, again, she really didn't mind the work. 

“You never now,” Chiara had said pensively, beginning to brew tea and coffee, jaw flexing. “The Germans have a...open door rule—they can come to any house, without invitation.”

Amelia froze. “Has—Is that…?”

“It has not happened for the time I have lived here,” Chiara explained, checking the gingerbread in the oven. “We are too far away, in too troublesome of any area, for anyone to come. But Margherita said it was...a little often for her.”

A shiver. “Well, let's hope your luck doesn't run out on us today, okay?”

Chiara nodded. “Yes. Let us.”

Amelia did a final once over—her makeup was applied to the best of her ability, and she had found some petroleum jelly to utilize in a last-ditch effort to take her eyebrows. A bit of rouge on the nose, cheeks, forehead and chin made her look more alive, and powder hid her fading freckles. A hint of soft brown on the eyes, hardly even there, and dark brown mascara; she used her ring finger to blot on a dark red lipstick. 

_ Because  _ Chiara had put on makeup, for Christmas, and had worn one of her Sunday dresses under her apron—and because, apparently, who  _ knew  _ who might visit? Amelia wanted to look presentable and put-together; classy and fashionable. 

It had  _ nothing  _ to do with the major. Nothing to do with him at all, really. 

Neither did the blue dress he just so happened to like—Amelia  _ also _ just so happened to like it, and the fabric was comfortable and soft. It had  _ nothing  _ to do with Ludwig Beilschmidt. 

At all.

_ It does. _

Shut up. 

She smoothed down her hair one last time before returning to the kitchen to check up on Chiara. That was enough alone time for her. 

“I'm all finished dollin’ up, by the way,” is the way she chose to announce her presence. 

“It is very nice,” Chiara said, hardly sparing her a glance.

“An’ I've finished cleanin’ up.” Amelia leaned against the doorframe. “’Less you got somethin’ else for me?”

“No, no. You are so much help for me.” Chiara was chopping potatoes for something she had called ‘latke,’ a dish from Eastern Europe than she found quite bland, but the rest of the family seemed to enjoy. “Thank you for all of your help. You are so kind.”

“Happy to do it, Chiara.”

Breakfast—more like brunch—would be a feast, and Amelia's stomach pinched and twisted and rumbled from her hunger. Loud enough for Chiara to chuckle. 

“Food looks good,” Amelia muttered, hoping to deflect some of the embarrassment, but her cheeks still burned. 

“Thank you.”

Amelia opened her mouth to speak— _ when will breakfast be ready? She was  _ famished—but a strong, firm knock came out instead. The sort that was proper and professional and polite, the way salesman or police officers back home knocked; how her grandfather had insisted on teaching her how to knock.

Chiara set aside her knife and turned, nose wrinkled. “ _ Che caz— _ ” She shook her head. “Amelia, will you please see the door?”

Amelia frowned, heart dropping to her stomach. “ _ Me? _ ”

“That is what I said, yes? I am cooking, see? It would be rude…”

Amelia's heart was crawling up from her stomach, alone with the retch in her throat, which burned like acid and an extract of sheer terror. Her hands were shaking, legs unsteady. Ludwig hadn't mentioned any visitors, had he? No, not to her, anyway—not in French. 

And she was  _ sure  _ he'd've told her: he was good at keeping her informed on these sorts of things, for the most part. And it was  _ Christmas.  _ Who the hell would be  _ there _ , and not with their families?

Her mouth felt dry. She knew the answer. Who else would it be?

Still, she did as she was told, and forced herself to smile politely, running through the few German phrases she'd begun picking up on and she walked across the front room to the door— _ Guten Morgen, Willkommen, Bitteschön, Dankeschön… _

She carefully opened the door. “Entschuldigen, Herr—”

A tall, imposing gentleman—there was no other word to describe the man but  _ gentleman,  _ straight from the 1890s, really—dressed in an old-fashioned suit as he was, well-tailored and almost completely black and coal grey. His hair was completely silver, but still retained some youthful fullness and was neatly combed. His eyes were dark and stormy, lips pressed into a severe line. Chin tilted proudly. 

She raised her eyebrows at him—she couldn't help it. He couldn't he Gestapo, or  _ anyone  _ in the Nazi administration, anyway. Not anyone high up, at least—however, his suit appeared to be pure wool and luxurious; the gold chain of a pocket watch hung across his jacket. Wealthy, important. His shoulders were broad and he towered over Amelia—not a man she wanted to be on the bad side of. 

“Guten Morgen,” she finally managed to spit out, moving to the side and gesturing for him to come in. “Willkommen, Herr…?”

His French was precise and proper, though the harshness of his accent reminded her of the way Tolys and Gilbert spoke French—with hard consonants and trilled R's and soft L's. 

“Laurinaitis, mademoiselle. You must be Angelo's tutor, yes?” His voice was deep and Amelia could feel it reverberating against her bones. 

She nodded too quickly. “That's me, monsieur.”

He looked so stern—with such a sharp jaw and angular features and a tall, thin nose. His eyes were strong, penetrating, and seemed to be olive-coloured. She swallowed the scream threatening to slip past her lips. “Lau—Laurinaitis? Like—Gilbert and Tolys?”

He brushed past her with the strong, confident gait of a man who'd spent his life on the battlefield. Surveyed the room quickly—and when he spoke, he commanded a certain amount of respect. He was a leader, none of the pomp and laud so many relied so heavily on needed. 

“Yes, mademoiselle. Exactly like them. Is Ludwig here?”

“Er—yeah. Yes, monsieur.” She held out her hands to take his coat, which he didn't acknowledge in anyway. “He's, uh, outside in the workshop. Makin’ the, y'know, tree stand.”

Monsieur Laurinaitis hummed in response. She decided she  _ could  _ see the twins in his face—he had Gilbert's eyes and mouth, and they walked almost exactly the same way; but he had Tolys's nose and chin and cheekbones and height. The way he  _ spoke,  _ however—that was all Ludwig. With the natural authority and the call to respect, but polite and eloquent. 

“I could go—”

Laurinaitis raised a hand. “That will not be necessary, mademoiselle, though I appreciate the offer. I must go speak with him and it is quite, ah,  _ urgent _ , should we say? It was a pleasure meeting you, however. Perhaps I should stay for breakfast.”

“Shall I esco—”

“That will be unnecessary; I know my way around.” He nodded at her. “But I thank you for your hospitality, Miss…?”

“Frank, Monsieur.”

Laurinaitis nodded at her. “Thank you, Miss Frank, for being so accommodating on such short notice. Perhaps I  _ should _ stay for breakfast.”

Amelia fidgeted. “We'd—we'd love you have you. ’Course.” 

She giggled nervously, wringing her thin hands together. “Nice to meet you, too, Monsieur.”

***

Monsieur Laurinaitis had ended up staying for breakfast, which had been the direct opposite of Amelia's prayers, but seemed to have pleased Angelo deeply, she so supposed she could let it slide. If not for Angelo's beautiful smile. 

Amelia had found that, Reiner Laurinaitis, much like his sons, was not  _ quite  _ as intimidating as he seemed upon first glance—he was well-mannered and graceful, an excellent conversationalist, from what she could tell, and a doting grandfather. He spoke in French for Amelia's convenience almost as often as Ludwig and Chiara did; he asked her polite, non-intrusive questions and was attentive as he listened. 

It also gave her the opportunity to further detail her cover story: she was Ophèlie Frank, father from the Rhine, mother from Alsace-Lorraine. Twenty-four years old, went to school to be a teacher, and was working as an au pair for a prominent Parisian family until she quit to be closer to her sick aunt in Belley and worked briefly in a Mansion d'Izieu, before applying to work as a nanny and tutor to the reputably fair employer of Major Ludwig Beilschmidt—she'd been there for only a few weeks, and was excited to be teaching a joy like Angelo and to learn more about her father's cultural roots. 

Oh, and—of course, she and both of her parents were strongly Lutheran and members of the French Nationalist Party. She deeply supported the German occupation of France—the country was safer, the economy improved, et cetera, et cetera. 

It was still surprising to her, how easily and smoothly the lies came—how her tone remained neutral and pleasant, her expression open and friendly. 

“Twenty-four,” Mr Laurinaitis had said, sincerely curious, “and so beautiful and accomplished—and you are not married, or even engaged? Excuse my forwardness, but that feels entirely inane.”

Amelia nodded. “Right now, I'm perfectly content with jus’ my job—though obviously, I'd love to have a family of my very own one day—like I said, I  _ love  _ children—but I think right now, with this war goin’, it wouldn't be a good environment to bring a child into, y'know?

“So, for right now, I'm satisfied takin’ care of littl'uns whose families’ are entirely too busy, with all this goin’ on, like their my own family.” She grinned. “Gives me purpose.”

She hoped that sounded genuine—a devoted tutor was a far cry from an essayist, an economist, a political philosopher, or a civil activist, but she  _ did  _ liked kids, and was content with caring for sweet Angelo, and she had initially hoped to get married, even start a family, once this hellish war was over…

Mr Laurinaitis nodded, believing her. “That's very selfless of you. But don't devote too much of your time to that career of yours—that's how you'll end up still single and without a social life when you're almost forty, like my sons.”

Amelia chuckled. “You're sons  _ are  _ good men, but I'll keep that in mind.”

“You're very good to my grandson, and my family.” He sounded approving, much to Amelia's relief. “I'm glad Angelasis has people like you and Madame Vargas in his life, mademoiselle.”

“Thank you, monsieur.” Amelia flushed and fidgeted and cleared her throat. “You're very kind, for sayin' that.”

Angelo had bubbled about something, catching his grandfather's attention from Amelia for the rest of the meal. He smiled and giggled and Chiara scolding him for chewing with his mouth open (in Italian, and that's what Amelia gathered, based on her knowledge of the Romance languages). Amelia made sure to smile and nod whenever he looked at her, and that seemed to be enough to satisfy him.

In the corner of the living room, the tree stood up on its stand—the fragrance was pungent and overwhelming and nostalgic for something Amelia couldn't place, but it made her eyes water all the same. 

Mr Laurinaitis left almost immediately after breakfast—apparently he was on a tight enough schedule as it was, but he could never say no to his Angelasis. 

The rest of the morning was a whirlwind of preparations and Amelia was grateful to stay occupied—the  _ last  _ thing she needed was for her thoughts and feelings to run amuck, entirely unchecked by any sense of logic or principle. She jumped right into the work, volunteering for anything and everything she could to pass the time. Chiara had shown her how to make a traditional German  _ Stollen _ —or a war-time version of it, anyway—with the dried fruits bought in its behalf by the major, and Amelia paid rapt attention to all of Chiara's instructions. She also helped to chill the apple cider wassail, which Ludwig had also managed to obtain, thanks to his status, which Chiara was absolutely delighted over and she had kissed him in gratitude. 

Preparations in the Beilschmidt home were a new sort of hectic and exciting, entirely different from the Jones-style of a French Catholic/American-west Evangelist fusion of the holiday's traditions—but not at all unpleasant, altogether, even though Amelia had absolutely  _ no idea  _ what the hell was even going on for most of the time. She drank it all in and put her whole soul into experiencing an authentic, genuine, bona fide German Christmas. 

And she also avoided Ludwig whenever she could manage it, which had been easily, all things considered. Amelia stayed practically glued to Chiara's side in the kitchen, and Ludwig and Angelo had gone to spend some time with Tino in the cottage, before resuming whatever they working on together in the workshop. 

Chiara dried her hands off on a dish rag. “Lunch is ready. Will you tell the boys?”

Amelia shrugged. “Sure.”

Chiara nodded gratefully as she began to set the kitchen table (the dining room was only for family dinners, or for guests). 

Amelia retrieved her coat from it's hook and pushed her arms through the sleeves—and then hesitated. She couldn't stop the words from tumbling from her mouth; she'd been holding them in since that morning, since the major had deposited her back into her room, after comforting her, after...well, all of that. Whatever it was. 

“Chiara, what does Major Beilschmidt think of me?” 

“What do you mean?”

Amelia began to tie her scarf around her neck, hat and gloves tucked between her elbow and ribs, as snug as she could possibly manage. “Well, I mean— _ why _ ? Why's he riskin’ his neck for me? We  _ hardly  _ know each other, y'know? An’—an’, I'm an Ally—”

Chiara rolled her eyes at her—and Amelia could tell that even with the woman facing away from her, because Chiara was one of the people who used her whole body to roll her eyes. “I think it is obvious. Ludwig is many things, but he is not subtle.”

Amelia stopped buttoning her jacket abruptly, heart throbbing so painfully she thought it might actually burst. “Wh—what d'you mean, Chiara?”

Chiara turned to face her, holding a larger plate, meant for one of the adults, smirking, her eyes deep and knowing and probing. “You try so hard staying away from the other and you are always staring. And you smile and laugh with the other one...I am not stupid, Ophèlie.”

Amelia stared dumbly at the little Italian woman as she continued to place dishes and cutlery. Finally, she managed, feeling like she was being strangled, “I try to be friendly.”

Chiara laughed loudly, teasing and incredulous, but not quite  _ mean _ —her teeth were bright against her dark skin and her laughter was as symphonic as her voice. “If that is what you say is  _ friendly, _ Ophèlie, what I hear about Americans are true.”

Amelia chewed on her cheek, opening the scab that had been reforming inside of her mouth, red as a tomato. Her reply was very intelligent. “Wha…?”

“Oh, you are very  _ slow,  _ Ophèlie.” She snorted. “Do not worry—so was Antonio. He did not notice any of my hints.”

Amelia stared at the fine, lacy white curtains that fluttered over the skin, delicate as spider silk, and the painted dishes set neatly on the modest square table, trying to keep herself from bursting into flames from her mortication. “That doesn't—doesn't mean anything! Not necessarily. Told you, I'm friendly. Try to be friendly.”

“More like trying hard not to fall in love.” She placed a teapot on the table—carefully, about her actions and her words. Choosing everything she says deliberately, as not to offend. “Well— _ you  _ are. Ludwig is already a goner.”

Amelia gaped at Chiara, unsure of how to retort—to deny it, to accuse her of teasing her. Because Chiara  _ had  _ to be messing around with her.  _ Had  _ to be. 

“I know it is hard. You want to be loyal to your fiancé, but you cannot control the heart, Ophèlie.” The woman took her usual seat at the table (opposite of the head of the table, where Beilschmidt would sit; Amelia would sit to the major's left and Chiara's right, and Angelo sat opposite to her) and she put a small, callused hand comfortingly on Amelia's forearm. Amelia had always thought of herself as tan, but she had paled significantly in the past few months and Chiara's richly pigmented skin put that into stark view. “And your fiancé was a very good man, but you could see the world and never find a man as sweet as Ludwig.”

“He's—he's a  _ Nazi _ ?” Amelia sputtered, shaking her head vigorously. “And I  _ love  _ Arthur. More than  _ anything. _ ”

Chiara's hazel-green eyes had softened from their usual scowl, her lips simply pursed, rather than in the deep from Amelia had become so accustomed to. 

Amelia ground her teeth into the flesh of her cheek and tasted blood. “He's a  _ Nazi _ , Chiara. He's…”

“I was the same, when Margherita came to me—telling me that she is  _ marrying a German _ , even after the last one. That she loves him and there is nothing I can say or do to change her mind. Nothing will stop her.” Chiara's expression grew distant, tired. “Not even the new marriage laws.”

Amelia shook her head, afraid to hear more—to hear anything else that might somehow endear the major further to her, any attempt to  _ humanise  _ someone who should have just been a monster, plan and simple. Tears pricked at her eyes, 

“But Ludwig was not what I thought he would be—he was kind and romantic and was very good to my sister. Probably more than she deserved. Even though he is always so busy.” Chiara chuckled with a harsh, bitter edge. “I was so jealous of my sister and asked poor Toni why he is not more like Ludwig—but she was very lucky and very happy, and I was happy for her too.

“Then she died.” Chiara drummed her fingers thoughtfully against the table. “The doctors told us their second baby was breech and my sister died before they could operate. The baby was stillborn. But the doctors were German this time, not Italian, like for Angelo. And we do not know  _ for sure _ , the laws…”

Chiara's jaw twitched, eyes pinkened and misty. 

“Lucky for us, as the Germans did not believe us, Italy did, and there was... back-talk from Mussolini. The Vargas Affair, it is called.”

Amelia's mouth fell open, and if it were physically possible, her jaw would be on the floor, like in a cartoon. “You think they—they really woulda let your sister and her baby die on purpose?”

She knew the Nazis were evil and intolerant—xenophobic, and firm in their belief of the superiority of the Aryan race. But the murder of a woman, and an innocent baby, just for their genetics? That was beyond cruel. Beyond evil. Beyond humane or even animalistic. It was  _ disgusting,  _ and though she found it hard to comprehend the sheer amount of evil one had to possess to commit such a heinous act, she had no reason to doubt the validity of Chiara's claims, especially if she could back them up with the story she had heard some about, in 1940—the Vargas Affair. 

A loyal Italian fascist, the daughter of some officer in Mussolini's Italy partially responsible for the invasion of Ethiopia, who had gone to great lengths to get an Honorary Aryan printed across her records—even passed the German geneticists’ tests to prove her children would be genetically strong, and had passed an SS Bride School with top marks to marry a German officer. It had, according to the New York Times, put yet another strain on Italy's and Germany's already tumultuous alliance and caused some civil unrest in Italy. Himmler had firmly claimed it to be an honest-to-God but unfortunately unpreventable death; many Italians called it murder, and called to end the alliance. The Führer, it appeared, refused to comment on it; Mussolini had talked about it extensively, and what it would mean for the future of the Axis Powers. 

It had seemed insane to Amelia, for Chiara Vargas to be related to the largely unidentified victim of the Vargas Affair—and she'd honestly forgotten about it, once she was done discussing the peculiarity of the situation with Arthur and her father and her classmates. 

“So, Ludwig did what he and Margherita were planning for some months—leave the Party and Germany also.” Chiara's grip on Amelia's wrist tightened. “So he tries to leave, but he cannot. He is needed by the Führer. He even used his connection to the Laurinaitis family, says he is grieving and it is for the good of his son…”

Chiara trembled like an autumn leaf, destined to fall in only a few short moments, and her voice came out distorted through her clenched teeth. 

“They tell him if he ever tries to leave again, his son will disappear—his brothers, his father and also Antonio and I will also disappear. He will be sent to fight on the eastern front. He almost was, too, but Gilbert used his position in the East to block it. And so he took me and Toni in, to protect us, and...Toni joined the Resistanza.”

Amelia's head spun. “I didn't know…”

“It happens to many soldiers.”

“What sorta corrupt, fucked-up government does  _ that _ ?” Amelia's blood boiled and her vision seemed to go fuzzy and red around the edges. Sweet, little Angelo, being threatened by some shady administrator, hardly a  _ toddler _ —Chiara, being separated from her husband—Margherita, who did everything right, everything to appease the  _ boches _ , and was  _ still  _ killed for her ancestry—and Ludwig, who had done nothing to deserve a fate so cruel, being punished for it all. 

And she had never known. Never  _ understood.  _

Chiara's brows night. “Does America not have mandatory service?”

“Uh, yes. It does—but it's, it's only during wartime an’ when recruitments are low.”

“And if a young man does not want to go?”

Amelia shrugged. “Guess he could go to prison.”

“It is not so different.”

“But we'd never threaten a man's family for refusing to service!”  _ Especially not murder them. _

“Germany is small. What if every man did not fight?”

Amelia fell silent. This sick war wouldn't have ever started in the first place. Jean Moulin would be alive. Arthur would be alive. Francis wouldn't be a hunted man. Amelia wouldn't be on the run from some sadistic Gestapo captain. Margherita would be here, with her sister and son and husband— _ alive.  _ But she didn't say that. Couldn't say that. 

It wasn't hers to say.

“Life is difficult, Ophèlie. Many would become cruel if put in Ludwig's place, but he is not. Do not forget this.”

A hot tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away with her knuckles. Stupid, treacherous tears. Stupid, Goddamn Nazis. Stupid her, for being so stubborn, so  _ everything.  _

He had been so pleasant and respectful during their interrogations, never raised his voice or  _ even  _ growing mocking or condescending. He'd stood in front of her crumpled body when Dresdner had struck her; gotten her stitches, even though it seemed futile and useless, just out of the goodness of his heart. Even offered her food and drink— _ advice.  _ And then he'd orchestrated her rescue from the Gestapo, and treated her with the utmost civility and dignity, even as Amelia refused to take anything he did at face-value and tried to twist him into the villain at every turn. And then he  _ trusted  _ her, enough to stay with his family even. Even his young son, who adored him. And even Chiara, who hated Germans, clearly had the utmost of faith in him, trusted and respected him deeply. 

And he had held her during her nightmare—been so gentle and calming, so warm and solid and strong. He hadn't had to do that, not even a little, and yet  _ he had.  _ Because he was just so  _ good.  _

She flushed. “Oh, my God.”

Chiara quirked a brow. “Hah?”

“I've been so wrong ’bout him!” Amelia buried her face in her hands, shaking her head. “I can't believe—can't believe I...oh,  _ God _ , Chiara.”

“He understands why you feel the way you do,” Chiara said, voice tight, but at the same time: reassuring. 

Amelia stood there for several minutes, face resting shamefully in her hands as her shoulders shook from the effort to  _ not just sob.  _

“I'd better go get ’em.” Her throat was tight and thick, her voice subdued. Chiara couldn't even understand her, most likely, but Amelia decided that it didn't really matter anyway. 

She practically lunged outside, her face hot and flushed and salty. Her legs could hardly carry her—she fell to her knees in the snow and stared off into the clouds, hardly able to breathe. Wind tore at her hair, scarf writhing, stinging against her skin. 

Ludwig—in love with her? With  _ her _ ?

No, that wasn't possible. Couldn't be. 

Didn't make any sense, any sense at all.

_ No sense! _

Her legs ached to run, run far away into the snow. To return to London, her father's loving embrace. He  _ loved  _ her.  _ He  _ loved her. He loved  _ her. _

Was  _ in love  _ with her. 

His  _ captive.  _ His  _ prisoner.  _

Who he took care of. Respected. Trusted. Treated so kindly. With  _ dignity.  _ Like his  _ equal.  _

He  _ loved— _

He loved  _ her _ .

Oh,  _ God _ .

The thought made her heart flutter, put her stomach in twists and knots, her mind racing, swirling, cheeks blazing, her knees weak. Warmth spread throughout her, from her heart to her fingers, and her breath came out short and shallow. 

Arthur had died in snow like this. It had been the last place she'd seen him. Last place he'd seen her—took a breath. 

She stood shakily, lightheaded, emotions flooding her like a dam had burst, and it felt like it hurt with enough force to send her on her back. 

When Arthur had proposed, she'd been so excited, so overcome with emotions she'd hardly been able to choke out a “yes.” She squealed like a schoolgirl and cried like a baby, and hugged him so, so, so tightly. He'd spun her around—they were both laughing, weightless. So happy, young, free. 

“Amelia Jones,” he'd said, holding her shoulders, looking her straight in the eyes, “I don't know where the hell I'd be without you.”

“Me neither,” she'd gasped, pulling him into a long, hard, passionate kiss that felt like it never would end. And it shouldn't've. 

She had no doubt Ludwig's been through some shit. Shit harder than she could imagine he would have, from his kindness. But how could she love  _ anyone  _ as much as she loved Arthur?

A  _ Nazi _ , of all people. 

Childish laughter sounded from the workshop, muffled by the heavy wooden door. Amelia's fingers were stiff and numb as she pushed open the door, and the wind pulled up her skirt. When the door had flung open, Ludwig was swinging Angelo in a wide arc over his head. 

Amelia clutched a hand to her heart, eyes still stinging. Ludwig set Angelo down, sensing her mood, and stared at her. 

“Mutti!” and Angelo was scrambling across the wood shavings and into Amelia's arms. 

“There, little one.” She patted her back affectionately. “It's time for lunch. Tante Chiara calls.”

“Eß dein Mittagessen, Angechen,” Ludwig said and Angelo sprinted towards the house, laughing hysterically. 

Amelia watched him run into the house, hesitant. She should have run after him, race him—let him win on purpose, of course, and then make a show out of her dramatic defeat, but—

It was too late to run. He was in the house already. 

She wanted to  _ talk. _ She had  _ questions.  _

So many thoughts, so many questions, so many things she  _ had  _ to say. 

She wanted to talk to the major. What Chiara had told her. All of it. Fears be damned. Amelia was always reckless and stupidly brave and never thought about  _ anything _ —especially running into a possible confrontation—no matter  _ what.  _

But then, her legs shook with the effort to stand still, hold her ground. She wanted to  _ run.  _ Hide herself away, curl up in the snow, and just...sob. Sob ’til her throat bled and her lungs ached and her skin had frozen over from the cold. 

This was all so much to handle at once. Too much for her frayed nerves. 

She felt Ludwig's warmth before she saw him—his callused hand brushed against her freezing cheek. She hated that she could feel the warmth from it in her toes; that her heart started. Hated that she wanted to hold his hand there. 

“What's wrong?” His voice was soft, close—Amelia shivered at the proximity. The  _ intimacy.  _ His eyes searched her face for an answer, but there was none to give. 

Instead she recoiled from his touch and threw her gaze to her worn, brown boots, drenched with melted snow. All of the dried blood was finally gone. 

“We should eat.” 

Amelia said nothing—she couldn't find anything to say, and even if she did, she doubted she had the voice to say it. 

He held out his arm and she took it without a thought, grateful for the support, and allowed him to escort her back to the house, still numb. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	19. Nineteen

24 December 1943—1:32 PM

Titisee, Schwarzwald, Baden-Württemberg

In the Alemannic dialect  _ Teti  _ meant “little child” or “baby.” Which had meant, according to Alemanni beliefs, small children would come from this apparently bottomless lake—a very Lovecraftian twist on a white stork delivering babies to their cradles, but apparently it was a common idea in central Europe, and another pond in the Hesse region, the Frau-Holle-Teich, also served this purpose. 

Another theory for its strange name was, apparently, the Roman general Titus being so impressed by the sheer size of the lake (covering around 320 acres) when he conquered the area, he decided to name it for himself. 

Another was in the twelfth century, according to legend, a noble called Titini had made the lands around the lake his hunting grounds. Hence, Titisee— _ Titi Lake. _

Finally, the arum lily, formerly known to the region as the  _ Tittele _ , could be the origin of the lake's strange name, although the flower was no longer found in the area. 

Whatever the etymology, it still just sounded like Titty Sea to Amelia. She didn't say that though. 

The lake itself was grey and smooth, a mirror image of the equally dull sky above. Rolling hills created a natural barrier to the lake, and a little settlement by the same name, most of the buildings small and red-roofed, bordered its eastern shore. Gorgeous, picturesque—much like everything else she'd seen in Germany so far. 

Amelia had been worried they'd stick out like a sore thumb, showing up in an ostentatious military vehicle the way they were, driven by Tino (as Tolys was apparently very busy that day). She realized she really shouldn't have been so concerned—they parked in a long row of SS staff cars and when they joined the throng of revelers, all of the men were decked out in some form of uniform or other. 

“Have you ice-skated before, miss?” Tino had asked her as Ludwig bolted from the car to go catch his excited son, who had leapt from the vehicle as soon as Tino had killed the engine. 

“Not really.” 

Tino turned to grin deviously at her. “If we laugh, it is out of love.”

Amelia grinned back at him. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Tino had opened the car door for her, bowing at the waist and kissing her hand, like a proper footman, and laughed at her incredulous expression when he straightened. 

On the lake, several military father's skated with their children, and the young women of the area circled together in little groups, chatting with and giggling at the strapping young soldier boys, home to visit their parents for the holidays. On this Christmas Eve, at least, war was the last thing on anybody's mind. 

When Amelia had come up to the boys—Ludwig, already in skates, supervised as Angelo laced up his own—Ludwig offered her an elbow, and she took it with a tentative smile.

“An’ you're  _ sure  _ this'll be fine?” Amelia jabbed her thumb at the swarms of officers mingling among the locals. “No one'll recognize me?”

Ludwig shook his head. “Highly unlikely. The only person who's seen you before is Dresdner and,  _ unfortunately,  _ I fear he won't be getting leave this Christmas.”

Ludwig and Amelia smiled at each other, and Amelia blushed. 

Angelo pulled on Amelia's skirt for attention, and she was quick to give it, crouching so that she could be eye level with the boy, muttering an apology as she twisted her arm from Ludwig's. “You'll catch your death of cold without mittens.” She pulled the dark blue pair stuffed into his pocket, and helped him slip his little fingers inside.

Angelo chattered and Ludwig translated. “Will you skate with us?”

Amelia patted Angelo's head, smile widening. “’Course, munchkin. Wouldn't miss it.”

Amelia stood and pulled on her own gloves, a mauve pair that Chiara had kindly donated. They were a little snug, but Amelia was still appreciative for the extra layer of protection against the cold. She held out her hand for Angelo's and the boy immediately began tugging her to the ice, chanting about something or other, apparently excited. Amelia couldn't help her belly laugh—completely shameless and improper—he was just so precious.

Ludwig was effortless in his ability to keep pace with them, moving in long, easy strides. “Munchkin?”

Amelia shrugged. “It's from a movie. Stars Judy Garland.”

“I've seen  _ Listen Darling  _ and  _ Thoroughbreds Don't Cry.  _ My wife adored Judy.”

Amelia nodded. “Who doesn't, honestly? Anyways, munchkin is from  _ The Wizard of Oz _ , if you've ever read the books.”

“I believe I've read one, when I was much younger.” He sounded sheepish, almost as if she expected him to razz on him for his lack of culture, which made her smile. 

“Well, the movie's really good,” Amelia said, stomach feeling weightless and filled with stones all at once. “It's in  _ technicolor,  _ and everything just looks so damn beautiful. I would  _ kill  _ for Dorothy's shoes.”

“In colour?” Ludwig breathed. “That's amazing. Modern technology is wonderful, is it not?”

Amelia hummed in agreement. She supposed it was, though she wasn't sure why he was so shocked. Lots of movies were at least in partial colour—technicolour had been around since the Great War. 

She still couldn't get used to the intensity of his gaze. It was like she was a book, and he was absorbed in her pages, procuring every last little detail about her—thoughts, feelings,  _ everything.  _ She tried to keep her face neutral—too many times that day  _ alone  _ she had lost her cool, and she didn't want him to see the turmoil burning underneath her skin as they laced their skates together, shoulders practically brushing. 

She knew her cheeks must have looked like an over-ripe tomato as he helped her to her feet, with how the skin there burned. Burned brighter when he helped gently brush the snow off of her clothes. He was a  _ Nazi _ , and she was a  _ POW _ . Amelia needed to stop being so damn stupid—needed to  _ pull herself together. _

Or was she? She hadn't really felt imprisoned, not since staying in his home. Not in the physical sense of the word. Not by explicitly just Ludwig's doing. 

The major pulled her onto the ice and her feet immediately sped out from under her in opposite directions, and she clung to his arm in a desperate beat hug. Holding on for dear life, she mumbled against his overcoat sleeve, “I regret to inform you that ice-skatin’ isn't one of my  _ many  _ talents.”

Ludwig snorted as he pulled her back into her feet and straightened her out. Unceremonious. But he was smiling, the sort of smile you gave a deer first learning to walk. “Will you fall if I let you go?”

His arm around her, however necessary it may have been to her stability, was unnerving and Amelia was  _ sure  _ he could hear the embarrassing fluttering of her heart against her sternum. “Yes! I mean, no, I mean—please...You can let go.”

Ludwig chuckled at her amazing eloquence and released his hold on her. “If you say so.”

“I  _ do _ ,” Amelia huffed as she let go of his arm. 

For a moment she stood straight and tall, wobbling only slightly, but then she went to adjust her hat (and by extension, her wig) and her weight shifted. Her feet, once again, flew out from under her and she gave a little squeak as he ass hit the ice, tailbone connecting painfully to the solid lake. Most definitely, she would bruise. She winced and blew the bangs that fell from her hat (dark brown, thankfully) out of her face. 

Ludwig laughed uproariously as he reached down to pull her back up again—his eyes sparkled like a galaxy in the night sky and his face just lit up. If falling hard on her ass while ice-skating is what made him laugh like that, then by God, she'd gladly do it again and again. It was intoxicating, and she found herself snorting-laughing right alongside him as he helped her struggle to get her skates back under her. She couldn't even be truly embarrassed. Not with Ludwig looking so damn  _ beautiful.  _

And then his arms were around her again and she was steady. “You haven't skated before, I see.”

“Not since I was real little, yeah.” Amelia grinned down at Angelo, whose eyes were wide and curious as he observed the attention his father was putting on her. “Mom took me once in Paris. Fell a lot then too.”

Amelia glanced back up at Ludwig. His eyes had grown intense, darkened somewhat, and she could see a flicker of something in them that took her breath away, though she had no name for it. This was all so different from what she had expected. 

Suddenly, his mouth was on hers. His lips were warm and chapped, and his fingers gripped her waist, and her body was pressed flush against his. And Amelia just  _ melted  _ into his arms, allowing the shock of such a passionate kiss to jolt through her body. Allowed him to kiss down her jaw, allowed his lips to brush against her ear. 

And then the mood changed—or, rather, she finally felt how tense and rigid Ludwig's shoulders were, how stiff his posture was, how his grip on her was bruising. “Amelia. I need you to hold  _ absolutely still. _ ”

“Wh—”

“Please, Amelia, just do as I say. For once.”

Amelia tightened her hold on his arms, trying to steady herself, still feeling lightheaded and breathless from the ghost of his mouth moving against hers, warming her skin with little sparks of electricity. Their cheeks were pressed against each other, his breath fanning against her neck. 

She shivered. “What're you talkin’ ’bout.”

He kissed her again, briefly, this time, and loosened his death grip on her. “Not a single word.” 

He glanced slightly over her shoulder and Amelia forced herself not to follow his gaze. Anxiety dug its claws into her back as a knot formed at the base of her throat. She tried to keep herself from trembling.

“Sturmbannführer Beilschmidt!” The voice was deep and booming and rattled Amelia's bones. “Nein, ist das eine freudige Überraschung!”

Ludwig shifted Amelia firmly to his left side so he could properly greet this newcomer with a  _ Sieg heil _ and then shake his hand. “Sturmbannführer Klein. Freut mich, Sie wiederzusehen.”

“Es ist so lange her, dass ich Sie das letzte Mal gesehen habe, Beilschmidt.” The man—Klein, was it?—briefly gripped Ludwig's hand between his own. “Ich habe Sie zuletzt vor Ihrer Versetzung gesehen, es ist mindestens ein ganzes Jahr her.”

“Zumindest.” Amelia stayed absolutely still, pressing as tightly as she could into Ludwig's side, and he held her there—protective, almost. Ludwig's voice was unnaturally tight when he said, “Was führt Sie in diese Richtung?”

Amelia stole a glance at this new guy, peeling out from under bangs. Ludwig stroked her hair, rubbed circles in the back of her neck—she supposed he was trying to soothe her. 

Klein was the sort of man who would give one the immediate impression of an overweight bulldog—short, stocky and bowlegged. There seemed to be absolutely no hair under his uniform cap and his beady eyes disappeared in folds of flesh. He must have thought the meticulously clipped mustache protruding from his upper lip elevated his looks somehow, but Amelia could only think of how awful it looked against his distinctly greyish skin. 

A thin, petite woman hung off his shoulders with a Cheshire grin, more of an accessory than a partner to him, with the little attention he seemed to be paying her. She caught Amelia's glance and wrinkled her nose at Amelia as if she were a hunk of bad meat in the butcher's, and Amelia did her best to not glower back at her. Despite her aura of luxury—her fine, woolen clothes and impeccably curled hair under a fashionable white beret—the woman was frail and her skin had seen healthier days and Amelia was fairly certain that even in the fragile state she was in, she could lay the woman flat in a fight. 

“Ich bin für die Feiertage hier, natürlich.” 

“Sind Sie noch in Hamburg?” Ludwig's heart pounded heavily against her shoulder, but he managed to keep his tone light—pleasant, cordial, friendly. She captured his hand in hers and began to massage his knuckles—she could feel the stress in his joints—in attempt to soothe him. 

It didn't seem to do much, if anything at all, but that didn't matter. It, at least, kept her hands occupied. 

The officer shook his head, laughing jovially. “Ich wurde gerade nach Frankreich versetzt, Sektion Vier, um genau sein.”

_ France. Section Four.  _ Major Klein must be stationed there, or perhaps just headed there temporarily? 

“Lyon!” Ludwig sounded both surprised and dismayed, but Klein didn't seem to notice. 

“In Ihrer Nähe, wenn ich mich recht erinnere, Sie sind in Belley, habe ich recht?” 

“Gutes Gedächtnis, doch lassen wir das.” 

“Ich bin gerade auf dem Weg nach Lyon, aber ich musste einen Umweg machen. Welcher Idiot würde doch ein Schwarzwald-Weihnachten verpassen?” 

“Der schönste Ort auf Erden.” Ludwig's tone was clipped, no politer than it absolutely  _ had  _ to be. 

Major Klein's eyes shifted to her—they ran up and down her body, lingering especially on her legs, like some sort of ravenous beast. Through her disgust, Amelia pitied the man's wife. 

“Ich bin fasziniert von Ihrem Partner, Sturmbannführer. Stellen Sie mich ihr vor.”

Ludwig's arm twitched, like he was about to push her behind him—shield her from Klein's predatory gaze—but he didn't. Instead he smiled. 

“Das ist Ophèlie Frank, die Lehrerin meines Sohnes, seit ich in Frankreich stationiert bin. Sie ist ein Geschenk Gottes, in vielerlei Hinsicht.” Ludwig pulled her up to deliver a few kisses across her neck and jaw. Amelia saw the gleam in Klein's as he watched the show and closed her own, hoping the disgust she felt was not evident on her face. 

“Und obwohl ich sicher bin, dass Fräulein Frank sich normalerweise gerne vorstellen würde, ist ihr Hals leider immer noch ein bisschen wund von…” Ludwig's breath tickled her ear and she shivered against him—his tone told her all she needed to know, the implications of the nature of their relationship. “Und vielleicht auch einen  _ Missbrauch _ .”

Amelia flushed, though she wasn't quite sure what Ludwig had said. She also probably didn't really want to know. 

Klein wetted his lips slightly, eyes gleaming. “Major Beilschmidt, mit so einem Gesicht, wäre ein Schwanz in ihrem Hals kein Missbrauch. Dafür ist ein Mund wie dieser gemacht.” 

Ludwig's body tensed behind her, pulling her in even tighter against her. “Das ist ein schöner Anblick.” His voice was tight, warning. 

“Sie ist ein Fund, das ist sicher.” Klein's eyes raked her body once again, and Amelia forced herself to smile—and not to gag or punch him or let him know  _ exactly  _ how she felt about him. 

“Ein Fund, die ich nicht teilen will.” Ludwig's voice was dark, his tone final. He held her almost possessively. 

Klein coughed and Ludwig continued to converse with the officer. Neither made any more attempts to include her or Frau Klein—thank God. She might've retched if they had. 

She stayed obediently still at Ludwig's side, wondering where Angelo had gone, if he were still there. Maybe Tino had found him. 

Klein continued to not acknowledge his wife in any way, shape or form. As if he was trying to intentionally exclude her. Amelia felt another wave of pity for the woman, despite the sneers Frau Klein kept giving her. 

“Was haben sie dir zugeteilt? In Lyon?” 

“Ich soll die Rafle in der Vichy-Zone unterstützen.” Klein grinned. “Große Dinge geschehen in Sektion Vier. Ich hoffe, Sie fühlen sich nicht ausgeschlossen.”

“Ich mach das schon.” Ludwig's grip on Amelia's arm tightened. Anger. 

“Barbie hat Berlins Zustimmung für mehrere weitere Züge im kommenden Frühjahr.” Klein's grin grew from a friendly one to something else entirely—edged like a razor blade and too bright. 

She looked up at Ludwig. His expression was stony, eyes dark. 

“Stimmt das?” was all he said in reply.

Klein nodded enthusiastically, jowls rippling. “Wunderbare Neuigkeiten, nicht wahr? Der Führer wollte Züge nach Paris schicken, aber Barbie konnte ihn davon überzeugen, dass die Produktion in diesen Gebieten erheblich reduziert wurde. Es gibt so viele kleinere Regionen mit ungenutztem Potenzial, wie Belley, die die Quoten problemlos ausfüllen könnten.Barbie überzeugte ihn, dass wir mit den Einheimischen zusammenarbeiten könnten, um ihre Gemeinschaften von Unerwünschten zu säubern. Die Ergebnisse werden, gelinde gesagt, beeindruckend sein…”

Ludwig's jaw clenched—she could hear his teeth grinding against each other. His torso became stiff, rigid, tense. 

“Und wie sollen wir das anstellen?” Ludwig's tone had edged into an icy sort of rage, the kind that chilled Amelia to the core. She clung to him, worried. 

What the hell could they even be talking about, to upset Ludwig so thoroughly?

“Darnard hat die volle Kooperation versprochen. Die Miliz und die Gendarmen werden tun, was Sie wollen.”

Darnard—as in Joseph Darnard, the turncoat who founded the collaborationist militia,  _ Service d'ordre légionnaire _ ? That disgusting little coward—hardly a man at all, much less a Frenchman—who had turned to the Nazis in his fear of Bolshevism somehow making it to France? Who actively fought against the Résistance and all France stood for, and then pretended sitting on the Maginot Line during some phony war made him a war hero, someone France should respect?

Amelia ground her teeth—so help her God, if she  _ ever  _ met that man, there would be no force in Heaven, Hell or Earth that would stop her from wringing his neck for his treachery. 

“Die Miliz ist kaum besser als gewöhnliche Straßenschläger,” Ludwig said coolly, jaw twitching. 

‘Die Miliz’ must have been the  _ milice,  _ if talking about the likes of Darnard. But just  _ what  _ about Darnard?

“Dann müssen wir dafür sorgen, dass es sich lohnt.” Klein's brows knit together, as if just beginning to notice Ludwig's apparent lack of enthusiasm. “Natürlich.”

“In meinem Bezirk gibt es nicht viel zu wählen.” 

“Ah, aber Barbie fühlt anders.” Klein was beginning to sound irritated, and Amelia squeezed Ludwig's arm. “Er hat diesen Frühling einen Zug für Ihre Region bestellt.”

Something about spring— _ diesen Frühling.  _ Amelia somehow doubted they were discussing the release date of a new Judy Garland film. Not with the thin line Ludwig's lips pressed into. 

“Ich bin schon mit anderen Dingen beschäftigt. Résistance-Gruppen flüchten in die Berge, um mit den Alliierten…” Ludwig sounded like he was almost  _ pleading  _ now.

Okay—Darnard. Résistance and the Allies. Something to come this spring. Klein in Lyon. Amelia chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. What could it all mean? What could Barbie possibly have in store for France now? Jean Moulin was already dead, and the Vichy government was already effectively little more than a puppet state to the Germans. 

What else could there be to gain? 

Amelia's ankles began to throb inside of the confines of her skates. Her thighs burned like they were full of hot coals. How could  _ anyone _ enjoy just standing around in their skates, talking? 

“Mein Freund,”—Klein's tone didn't  _ sound  _ like that of a friend's—“wir alle teilen Ihre Probleme. Aber der Führer hat der Umsetzung der Endlösung in ganz Europa höchste Priorität eingeräumt – vor allem in Südfrankreich. Wie es Ihnen gut geht, Beilschmidt.”

The Führer has given something a priority in Europe and southern France—something that may deal with the ‘problems’ with the Résistance and the Allies Ludwig must have been talking about? Except Klein's tone was negating—he was disagreeing on Ludwig with something about it. 

“Das ist mir bekannt.” Ludwig's tone was clipped and unnaturally steady. When Amelia hazarded a glimpse up at his face, his expression was cold, icy and she could see the subtle twitch of his lips into a grimace. 

“Dann schlage ich vor, Sie finden einen Weg, sich zu fügen.” Klein's smile was pleasant, and Amelia wondered if this was all intentional, a way to create Ludwig's discomfort, or if he really was just oblivious to the tension in the air. The dark cloud hovering over their little group. 

“Natürlich werde ich Ihnen so viel Hilfe wie möglich anbieten,” Klein continued—still pleasant, courteous, friendly. Mit den Problemen, die die Résistance Ihrer Region bereitet hat, kann ich Barbie vermutlich davon überzeugen, zunächst nachsichtig mit Ihnen zu sein. Der Führer wird sich über Ihre Unterstützung freuen.”

Ludwig said nothing—just hummed in acknowledgement—but his eyes smouldered. Amelia wouldn't be surprised if steam started to leak out of his ears. Klein didn't seem to notice—or maybe, he just didn't care—and instead turned his eyes back to Amelia. 

“Spricht sie auch Französisch?” Klein asked—clearly for Ludwig, but with his eyes on her face. 

“Ja.”

“French it is then.” Klein's switch was as fluid as water—and Amelia hated that he had a decent grasp on the French language, though his accent stilted his vowels somewhat. “So tell me, Fräulein, how do you like your new home?”

His eyes glittered when he asked, and it was clear that he wasn't interested in hearing about how she was adjusting to the new country. His smile was lecherous. Amelia wondered how he could be so blatantly lustful in front of his own wife. 

Amelia tried her best to keep her expression open. “It's been lovely. Germany is a very beautiful country.”

“And your living arrangements?” Klein was practically shaking with anticipation, though he stood perfectly still. “Are you finding them comfortable?”

“I have my own room in the estate,” Amelia said lightly. She tried her best to appear demure and unassuming. “It's very comfortable. They've been very accommodating to me.”

“And Major Beilschmidt has been”—the man lightly sucked in his cheeks—“treating you fairly? Given you your  _ proper _ dues?”

Ludwig spoke for her, tone sharp. Final. “Major Klein, it has been a pleasure, truly, and as much as I would like to stay and visit with you and your lovely wife, I must insist that you allow me to spend some time with my son and his beautiful tutor.”

“Oh, of course!” He seemed to snap right out of his lust, and his face went back to neutral, rather than so concupiscent. “But you  _ must  _ come visit us in Lyon one of these days.”

“I'll have to take you up on that offer,” Ludwig said cordially, enmity hardly a shadow of his words now. “And, of course, your presence is always welcome in Belley.”

“I fully intend on visiting, Major. Make no mistake about it!” the man chortled before giving a formal salute, which Ludwig returned, heels clicking in perfect tandem. Ludwig kissed Frau Klein's hand before Klein ushered her away. 

Ludwig watched their backs disappear into the throng, scowl returned, and deeply etched into his face. He continued to keep a protective, almost possessive, arm around Amelia. He shook his head with vigor before speaking again: “I am so sorry.”

“What's going on?” Amelia's voice was soft, and her consciousness felt like it was made from elastic—stretching up and out, threatening to snap. Her legs felt weightless, unstable—like they weren't even there. 

Ludwig's grip on her shoulders loosened as he turned to face her, but he didn't release her. “I've gotten you into a very dangerous situation—I wouldn't have brought you today if I had  _ known _ —if there was even the  _ slightest  _ chance—I thought no one here would recognize you.”

Amelia's chest tightened. “I don't … I don't understand.”

He hadn't  _ seemed  _ to recognise her. But perhaps that's what they'd been talking about, when speaking of the Résistance—but wouldn't have he just arrested her, both of them, right then and there?

“He'll be working near Dresdner on a daily basis.” 

A chill immediately shot down her spine and her skin frosted over—cracked and shattered like crystal on a tile floor. She tried to control her rapidly destabilising breathing. To calm her frying nerves, her flurry of thoughts, her beating heart. When she spoke, she couldn't even convince herself—her words sounded completely hollow. 

“Maybe they won't talk about it—even bring it up?”

“Perhaps.” Ludwig didn't sound convinced either. His voice was heavy, somber—and he seemed lost in thought, caressing her cheek with his thumb. Suddenly, be straightened, smiling down on Angelo (there he was,  _ thank God _ —Amelia could never forgive herself if they somehow lost him) and touched the top of his head. “Anyway, Angelo  _ desperately  _ needs our full attention now, wouldn't you agree?”

Amelia nodded. Still too terrified to speak. 

“Can you stand on your own?”

“’Course. I'm the  _ epitome  _ of grace.” 

Ludwig released her and turned to give his attention to Angelo, and Amelia surprisingly managed to stay up (standing was much easier than skating, even though it hurt her knees). Amelia touched her fingers to her still-burning lips, brushed them across the electric ghosts of Ludwig's kisses across her jawline. How soft and sweet they had felt against her raw, flushed skin. All of that lightheadedness—that bubbling warmth that floated through her stomach like champagne—had dissipated into thin air, all thanks to that Lyon major. All of his talk about the Résistance and Klaus Barbie and Joseph Darnard and Adolf Hitler—the invasive, lickerish looks Major Klein had given her. None of it made any sense—not that Amelia had ever met a Nazi that  _ did  _ to make sense to her—but was more than just that. Something about it just felt so wrong, so uneasy—and the way Ludwig had reacted…

Amelia shuddered, suddenly freezing, despite the warm rays of the sun. 

“Are you alright?” Ludwig placed a large, warm hand on her shoulder. 

“Just tired,” Amelia said lamely, shrugging. Chewing the inside of her cheeks. Why would Ludwig have been so upset—what could have  _ possibly  _ been said to distress him so thoroughly? 

Angelo pulled anxiously against Ludwig's hand, whining. “I have a tradition to keep and then we can go.”

“You don't have to end your fun on my account.” 

Ludwig shook his head. “I think we're both anxious to leave this... situation. And I have to talk to my brothers.” 

Amelia nodded, and then she grinned at the father and son before her. “You gotta be one of the best fathers around, Major. Look at how much he adores you.”

Ludwig gave his son a quick, affectionate smile. “You deserve an explanation for my behaviour.”

Amelia said nothing. Just stared off into the distance, watching a young couple skate arm in arm, spinning across the ice in a graceful dance. Young love. So happy and free. 

“Do you want to come with?”

Amelia shook her head. “No, no. I'm tired an’ I'd probably jus’ slow you down. I, uh, I needa sit anyways.”

“I promise we'll be quick.”

“Don't you worry ’bout me. Just enjoy your son.” 

With a sympathetic smile, Ludwig skated past her, Angelo in tow. The shrieks of Angelo's laughter as he slipped and clung to his father, who spun him around and around, were just another instrument in the orchestra of voices enjoying their Christmas. They were so peaceful, so happy. It was so...idealistic, picturesque. So perfect. 

Amelia sat in the snow banks. She hardly felt the snow melting against her thighs, soaking through the back of her skirt. Hardly felt the sting of the winter air against her flushed cheeks and tingling lips. Her skin still felt so sensitive. 

She had once told Arthur if she could give him the world, she would, and he had told her that he didn't  _ need _ the world when he had her—that she was enough. And Amelia had told him the same—that he  _ was  _ her world. But it had been strange,  _ wrong.  _ Almost a lie, though her love for him, her dedication to him, had been complete, enough had never been  _ enough  _ for Amelia. It wasn't enough to do well in school and go to college—she had to be accepted into a prestigious university, had to do better than all of her classmates, had to win all of her debates with her professors. It wasn't enough to be decoding messages at Grendon—she had to be  _ in  _ France, working to fight the  _ boches  _ alongside the Résistance. She was never satisfied, always wanted  _ more _ . 

But, somehow, watching Major Beilschmidt skate with his son, weaving through throngs of people, she felt  _ full.  _ Too full of life, of everything. She wasn't exactly sure if that's what satisfaction felt like it, but she didn't feel quite so antsy to get up, keep moving forward. She was there, in the moment, somehow still alive. And it was enough.

She knew she was a traitor and a goner for sure. Was it worse to betray your country or yourself? Despite having done both, Amelia had no answer. 

Amelia stood up, brushed the snow off of her skirt and sleeves, and wobbled to the bench where she had left her boots. She changed them quickly, not even bothering to tie her laces before she trudged back to the car. Simmering. 

Surely, she must have gone mad, if  _ this _ , of all times, could be where she started to grow complacent with her situation. Being a prisoner of war and a traitor— _ that's  _ where Amelia's ambitions had been leading her to, and that was almost more depressing than the thought of very possibly being imprisoned upon her return to Allied soil for desertion. 

Ludwig and Angelo managed to join her before she was able to find their car again—and Amelia tried her best to not openly curse how every single one had to be nearly identical, and how the snow made the entire lot look essentially the same. It was like some sort of puzzle, but the kind you weren't supposed to accomplish, and that's one of things she hated most about Germany. The homogeneity—of everyone and every _ thing  _ it seemed. 

Inside the car, there was no Tino to be found and Amelia had a minute heart attack, before she realized the two new forms in the car  _ weren't  _ Gestapo there to arrest her. 

Tolys flashed a soft smile at Amelia through the rearview mirror. “Fancy seeing you here, mademoiselle.”

Haggard crests underneath his muddy green eyes stood dark against his skin, and his cheeks appeared more hollow than usual. Apparently having called shotgun, Gilbert rifled through documents, running his hand through his hair, far more slouched over than Amelia had ever seen him—or even thought  _ possible.  _

Angelo was overjoyed to see his uncles for Christmas and Tolys cooed back at him accordingly.

“Where's Tino?” Ludwig leaned forward, somewhat miffed that Gilbert had taken his seat.

“Probably on his way to Munich to see his wife.” Tolys shrugged nonchalantly. “Told him he deserves to see his family too, so we traded cars.”

“Thank you for that.” Ludwig's expression turned grim. “Something tells me you're not here for Christmas, however.”

“Unfortunately not,” Tolys muttered as he punched the engine to the car. Apparently, they were supposed to be in some kind of hurry. 

“Ahh, yes. Unfortunately.” Gilbert didn't look up from his papers. “And Tolys here won't be here for much longer to make up for it.”

Amelia couldn't stop herself. “Whaddya mean?”

Tolys kept his smile on, molded like plastic. A serene,  _ how-can-I-help-you-sir  _ sort of thing. Completely unfitting for what he said next. “I've been transferred to Lyon for the implementation of the, er,  _ rafle _ .” 

Ludwig's eyes widened. “My  _ God. _ ”

“Do not worry about it, Ludwig.” Tolys seemed pretty worried, but no one said anything about it. “Now, you have eyes and ears up there, no?”

“I suppose.” He didn't sound happy about it though.

“Speaking of which”—Gilbert straightened out his paperwork and neatly pressed them into a manila envelope—“how are things in Belley, Ludva? Quiet?”

Ludwig shrugged. “Enough. He'll be back though.”

“Think he's suspicious?” 

“Seems to be.” Ludwig leaned forward, putting his hands against the back of Gilbert's seat. “Came by the château, to search it for any  _ spies. _ ”

“ _ Damn _ .” Gilbert pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut. “Should've hit him harder.”

“I doubt that would have changed anything.” Ludwig's face was twisted into a deep grimace. “Maybe make things worse.”

Tolys pulled out of the Titisee village and onto a mountain road, squinting against the glare of snow reflecting sunlight. “Tino said Klein came up to you and…”

Amelia forced herself to not gag at the memory of Major Klein, looking her up and down, inspecting her like she was on display. 

“He could be a problem.” Ludwig's eyes flickered. “Were you able to see Father?”

Gilbert nodded. “He said he's got a property in Sussex, if we feel we need it. London has still agreed to evacuate any Junkers, if they come to Holland.” 

Ludwig sighed. “Father will  _ not  _ be going to England, then?”

“We tried to tell him—”

“He told us his country ‘needs him.’ Whatever that means.” Gilbert snorted. “What  _ this country  _ needs is a fucking miracle.”

Ludwig nodded, exhaling shakily. “Thank God he's safe. At least.”

“Says he's proud of you, kid. Doin’ the right thing and all that.” Gilbert shrugged, leaning against the car door. “S’pose he's right to be though.”

“Thank you,” Ludwig said softly, for Gilbert's ears only. “That means a lot.”

“Better,” Gilbert grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Amelia's eyes flickered between the three men—then to Angelo, who rested his head tiredly against her arm, and then to her hands, neatly folded in her lap. Gilbert had said he would do anything for Ludwig, that Tolys loved him, his parents  _ adored  _ him. And that he might die protecting  _ her _ . They all might die. Because of  _ her.  _ For  _ her. _

Without thinking, she slipped her hand into Ludwig's. He made no comment and he didn't pull away. Just squeezed slightly. 

After that, Tolys and Gilbert murmured amongst themselves in Lithuanian—something they tended to do when they wanted privacy, even from Ludwig.  _ _ Serious and low, they murmured together—clearly not a conversation Amelia should interrupt.

Angelo had fully drifted off to sleep, resting on Ludwig's lap, curled up into a little ball. Soft curls brushed his forehead and his eyelashes fluttered. 

“Ludwig?” Amelia said softly, leaning in to him, hovering over Angelo's tiny form. His first name felt foreign on her tongue, strange and boxy, especially without his surname. But  _ nice  _ as well. A surprisingly attractive name, which Amelia had far from expected. 

Ludwig turned his eyes to her, clouded over with an incomprehensible mess of emotions that, even with all of Amelia's skills, she could never decode. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. “And I'm sorry.”

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. Silent and waiting. 

She took a deep breath. “I misjudged you. An’—well, uh...I owe you. For everything.”

“You're still afraid of me.” His voice was soft, matter-of-fact. 

“No, not you. Of, well”—she gestured to his uniform in frustration. “What you  _ represent _ .”

“Ah.” He still didn't seem entirely convinced by that and Amelia chewed the inside of her cheek apprehensively. A new scab was begging to form. 

“What did the SOE train you to do, if you encountered an enemy?” Ludwig finally asked. 

“I'm not—”

“That's right, I forgot.” Ludwig smirked slightly. “You're not supposed to admit to being an agent.”

Amelia huffed, crossing her arms. “Because I'm  _ not _ .”

How much did he have to know?

“Alright. Then let's suppose an Allied agent encounters the enemy—and she had a chance to kill him. Do you think she would do it?”

Amelia's lips quirked. “She?”

“Yes. Just for the sake of argument.”

Amelia bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. “Kill him?”

“Yes. She's clearly been trained to do so.”

“Not all agents are—I mean, I've  _ heard _ , y'know, not  _ all _ agents are…” 

“Then, if she could,” Ludwig corrected, somber. “If she  _ could _ , would she kill him?”

Amelia frowned, stomach twisting. “Why does it matter?”

_ Would I?  _

She couldn't even remember a time she'd considered killing him—even wanting him  _ dead _ —and yet, she longed for her freedom deeply. Longed to return to Allied soil, whatever it took. 

But to kill? Ludwig? 

She couldn't even put the two concepts in the same sentence. It seemed impossible. Not just physically, but mentally— _ emotionally _ . 

“I…” Ludwig paused as he stroked his son's hair, thoughtful and protective both. “I would  _ hate  _ to think this agent could pose a danger to this enemy soldier's family.”

Amelia's ears burned. “ _ You really think I would _ —”

“No, I don't,” Ludwig said quickly. “If I had, you wouldn't be staying in Germany.”

Amelia said nothing, but continued to scowl up at him. 

“So, because you've been so good to my son, and because he calls you ‘Mutti,’ and because you're so...so important to me.” He reached forward to rest a hand against her cheek. “I will trust you with my family's life. I trust  _ you _ , Amelia Jones.”

Amelia leaned her face into his hand before she could stop herself, blinking back tears. “You too. I trust you too.”


	20. Chapter 20

_ 24 December 2943—12:00 PM _

Despite Angelo's pleading, Ludwig lit the candles on the Christmas tree, Angelo clinging onto his legs and babbling on excitedly. To Angelo's delight, Ludwig allowed his son to blow out his lighting candle, leaving a wavering ribbon of smoke to snake up to the ceiling. The soft, golden candlelight bathed the room in a warm, golden glow and ran like a waterfall of light down the tree. Amelia had to admit, Ludwig was right—it was certainly unearthly in its beauty. 

With great pomp and circumstance, Ludwig presented to Amelia a silky, white angel with fluttering wings. Amelia pulled a chair to use as a stool and carefully crowned the tree with its final adornment, giggling. Like she was drunk (which Amelia almost  _ never  _ was).

“Bravo!” Ludwig mimicked Angelo's enthusiastic applause and Amelia bowed—careful to mind her skirt, being so close to the flames. She'd been smiling so much her face was beginning to grow sore. 

Amelia shrieked in surprise as Ludwig suddenly swung her off of the chair and onto the safety of her rug. 

“I thought I told you  _ not  _ to do that.” Amelia couldn't force herself to be as stern as she probably should have been. She  _ had  _ actually told him not to do that; but she also didn't really mind the fact that he'd done it anyway.

“Apologies.” Ludwig dipped his head slightly. Still smiling. He didn't seem very apologetic. Amelia still wasn't upset and, honestly, she didn't really  _ want  _ to be. 

Still feeling overfull from dinner (it was more than she had eaten in  _ weeks _ ), Amelia flopped down on the sofa, opposite to Chiara, who watched everything in amusement, chin rested on her fist. Angelo clambered onto Amelia's lap and she crooned to him, trying to soothe his excitement. A Bible lay closed, propped up on Chiara's knee: much thicker than the Bible most Germans seemed to own. 

Everything felt so light and cheery, like a movie or a children's book or something equally overly optimistic. Almost normal. Like everything since November hadn't even happened—like there was no war and no Nazis and Amelia's father knew she was alive and wasn't celebrating Christmas completely alone that year.

Ludwig sat on his armchair, and after some urging from Angelo—who apparently wanted to find a way to sit with both of his parents at the same time—Amelia perched on its armrest, and Ludwig supported her at the waist. Angelo was overjoyed with their compliance and was therefore now permitted to cuddle with them both. 

Singing was apparently a requirement, and Chiara promised to have her head on a platter for Christmas breakfast if Amelia didn't join in. 

“I might start an avalanche,” Amelia warned Chiara as the woman returned from her bedroom, dozens of music sheets rustling at her fingertips. 

“That is okay, if you do.” Chiara sat at the compact piano, snug in the corner of the room. She carefully laid down her sheet music and adjusted her posture on the bench. “It is Christmas, yes?”

Amelia decided it was in her best interest to sing, even if she sounded like a squawking bird when she did. Even if it sounded awful, especially against Chiara's beautiful music, which she seemed to produce with ease, her fingers tapping the keys with a rapid precision, her hands moving gracefully up and down the keyboard, face serene, and Ludwig's pleasing baritone. Even though Amelia had to sing in English, which  _ really  _ did little in the way of complimenting the German the others sang with. Even though her face burned with each crack of her voice, with each note she got wrong somehow. 

Angelo did little in participating in the carols, however—he kept himself busy running around the room, going to his presents under the tree (a meager amount, compared to what Amelia was used to, but he seemed pleased with it all the same) and then to the clock and then to Ludwig, going on and on with his excitement. 

They sung until Amelia's throat was raw and sore; until she was breathless and lightheaded; until she was blue in the face, she was sure. They only finished when Chiara complained about her fingers cramping, and Angelo was satisfied with everything. 

“I will not lie to you,” Ludwig had murmured, grinning. “You're singing is absolutely  _ awful. _ ”

Amelia snorted. “Thanks. I'm just  _ swooning. _ ” 

Ludwig chuckled. “It's, perhaps, the  _ worst  _ voice I've  _ ever  _ heard. And I've heard Gilbert sing.”

Amelia smirked down at him. “Oh,  _ stop.  _ You must say that to  _ all  _ the ladies.”

“Oh, of course not.” Ludwig winked at her. “Just the beautiful ones.”

Amelia gaped, face red, grasping for a retort— _ anything.  _ All she could manage was a half-hearted stammer of “Sh-shut up,” which only made Ludwig smile wider. Victorious. 

_ Just the beautiful ones.  _

He thought she was beautiful? 

Or was he just continuing with the banter? 

Did it really matter which it was? Chiara had said he was in L with her already, anyway. (She couldn't quite force herself to use the L-word, yet; not even in her thoughts).

The Kuckucksuhr squawked twelve times and Angelo ran to the tree and attacked his presents with an uncharacteristic ferocity. (He was, however, still careful to not tear any of the wrappings or ribbons used to adorn them, so that they could be used again, at Chiara's insistance.)

Ludwig watched lazily from his chair, slumped and open—not quite as rigid or soldier-like as he normally was (though he still seemed a tad more tense than one night expect a father on Christmas to be). As Amelia had come to expect from him. Yet his posture still remained fatherly, however strained—it reminded Amelia of how her father used to sit, so expectantly as he smoked his pipe, waiting for Amelia and her mother to unwrap their own presents. He never wanted any for himself. 

“What sort of Christmas would it be,” he would say in the weeks leading up to the holiday, as Maman did the holiday shopping and made arrangements with the Joneses' for a family get-together, smiling but serious, “if my girls weren't made to feel like the princesses they are?”

Despite this, Maman would always try her best to surprise the professor with something small and practical, something he couldn't oppose receiving—shoe shine, a tie, a new clipper for his mustache. Amelia always write the card, always wrote a short story to go with it. 

Her “Christmas story” had been a tradition within the Jones homestead since she was around nine; her father absolutely refused to celebrate Christmas without it. It could be anything—when she was younger, they were poems and little short stories. As she grew older, they became longer, essays about the state of things and what not. She became the family's ‘little activist,’ though Amelia hardly considered railing against the state of things in the privacy of her own home to be activism at all. 

“Oh, mais ma douce fille! Vous avez un tel cadeau avec le stylo; comme de la musique sur le papier!” her mother would exclaim, almost scolding her, whenever she had tried to weasel her way out of it, especially as she grew older—when her self-esteem had plummeted below sea-level, as it does for most teenage girls. “Dieu vous a donné ces talents étonnants pour une raisin. Ce serait un péché de ne pas les partager, ma chérie.”

Amelia had always rolled her eyes, but had always done it. Yeah, sure—God gave talents for a reason, and yet she could never use said talent. And despite Amelia's equally impressive athleticism, Maman had never encouraged that. Too unseemly, she supposed was the reason. 

Either way, Father was always delighted with it, and always used it as an opportunity to proclaim to his wife, “See, Lillianne? I told you—she's been lucky to inherit both your brains  _ and  _ your beauty.”

“And your sense of humour,” her mother was always quick to say, even as Amelia's cheeks burned from all of the doting. 

Professor Jones' eyes would twinkle at that. “Let's hope she grows out of that, shall we?”

Even at Grendon, Amelia had still sent him pages upon pages of what was slowly turning into a memoir of her time with the OSS, just to make up for the prolonged absence. It had been all that she'd spent her wages on. 

She'd been taking small notes of her time with the Résistance and the major and his family—and as soon as she could, she'd compile them all into a proper, written letter, and send it to him as soon as she could possibly manage. It was the least she could do. 

She set her jaw and gave another silent prayer.  _ Let Dad be okay this Christmas. Please. _

Angelo proudly displayed his gifts to his family, pulling Amelia out of her brooding. A new Sunday shirt from Chiara, polishable leather shoes from Amelia and a hat from his grandfather; his uncles had apparently bought him a book on the different edible and medicinal plants of central Europe and a blank book for journaling (Amelia vaguely wondered which one was from whom); the Christkindl had left an abundance of sweets in his shoes; and Ludwig had given him a hand-carved Panzer. He seemed equally pleased with everything he'd gotten, though, of course, it was the toy he devoted most of his attention to in the aftermath of opening his gifts. He also made sure to kiss everyone on the cheek and gratitude; he gave Ludwig three extra kisses, for his Opa and his Onkels.

Four more presents lay wrapped in silver and red, undisturbed underes the Christmas tree. “Those are for us,” Chiara said as she gathered the gifts in her arms and distributed them around the room. 

Amelia was startled to find  _ two _ placed on her lap as Chiara sat down. “Uh, Chiara—I think you may've given me—”

But then she read the tags, and Chiara hadn't given the gifts out wrong. Because in Chiara's neat print, the tag had read,  _ For Ophèlie—thanks for the help  _ and then in Ludwig's bold lettering:  _ To Ophèlie, a blessing on this house.  _

She stared, dumbstruck. Overwhelmed. Breathless. She fingered the satiny ribbons and her eyelashes fluttered rapidly, eyes drying rapidly. Lump forming at the base of her throat. “You didn't have to…”

“I did not do it because I  _ have _ to,” Chiara said hotly. “I did it because I  _ want  _ to.”

Amelia's face felt hot and sticky as she nodded dumbly. Her mother would have told her to be gracious, even if she felt undeserving. It was rude to rude to reject gifts, after all: especially ones that someone must have sacrificed a great deal for. But that only made her feel worse. 

Ludwig had given Chiara a sketchbook with nice, heavy pages and that was bound in leather, along with a fancy charcoal set from Switzerland. Chiara held her gifts reverently, carefully, as if she thought they might have been an apparition. “Bless you, Ludwig.”

“I had to get it for you, as soon as I saw it. I've been trying my best to hide it from you for six months.” He laughed softly. “It was hard not giving it to you right away, but I knew it would end up better to wait.”

“You are too kind.” She turned a charcoal stick over in her hands. “This must have cost you a fortune.”

“Just about,” he admitted, a little sheepish. “But you deserve it, for everything you've done for me.”

Chiara had gotten Ludwig a new scarf, which he had thanked her emphatically for. Amelia had to admit, he would look pretty handsome in it; it's cool grey colouration would compliment his eyes and complexion perfectly. 

Ludwig had given Amelia an expensive-looking coat, the sort with ornate brass buttons and fur-linings, which would probably be leaps and bounds ahead in keeping her warm as compared to her old, beaten-up and bloodstained, brown one, that had been the staple of her outfits since November. Chiara had also chipped in to supplement her winter wardrobe with a pair of sturdy, military-grade winter boots—no bloodstains to be found.

“Now you do not have just one set of shoes,” Chiara said with finality, nodding. 

Amelia looked up from the boots, also fur-lined, eyes misting over. “But I didn't get—”

“ _ Tch _ . Look what I wrote.” Chiara pointed to the tag tied under the bow, glaring. “‘Thank you for the help.’  _ That _ is what you have given me this Christmas, yes?”

Her tone made it clear she wouldn't be accepting any of Amelia's protests. So Amelia didn't say anything, just nodded and whispered a  _ Thank you  _ once more. 

No more cold and no more painful bloodstains. The kindness touched her and she wasn't sure if she'd be able to speak without sobbing from her gratitude. 

She'd have to get them something—though she couldn't be sure of  _ what _ , or even  _ how _ , seeing as she was a fugitive to the Third Reich and she was sure most citizens would be more than pleased to turn her in for the extra food. But that wasn't important—what  _ was _ important was repaying what the Beilschmidts had done for her. 

Chiara stood up suddenly. “It is late. Angelo and I will go to Midnight Mass. Will you come, Ludwig? Ophèlie?”

Ludwig shook his head somberly. “Unfortunately, I'm unable. With Tolys transferred, I promised Gilbert I'd help him move troops in the morning. I'm going to need an early start.”

The serenity of that night—the joy of Christmas—shattered around Amelia like dishes against a tiled floor. No, like the way her windows had shattered in an air raid back in London—chaotic and unexpected and dangerous, and it left her reeling. Like she'd been punched in the stomach and couldn't breathe. Silently, Amelia removed Ludwig's arm from around her waist and, thankfully, the major did not protest. 

Chiara looked imploringly at Amelia. “Ophèlie?”

Amelia chewed on her lips as that ever-present dark fog settled back over the living room, and the dread clawed its way back down her throat and into her chest. Acidic and suffocating. 

“No, thank you.” Her tone sounded conversational, diplomatic. A lie. 

“We will be gone until after breakfast.” The Italian gave Ludwig a short, stern look. “Do not leave until we can say goodbye.”

“Wouldn't dream of it. But I'll be back for a few hours on Sunday before leaving for Belley.”

Angelo kissed Ludwig and Amelia goodbye after Chiara had helped him into his coat and boots. They held hands as they disappeared into the night, releasing a sudden burst of cold air into the room as they left. Amelia shivered. 

The house was silent, save for the Christmas songs playing quietly on their small government-issued radio and the ticking of the clock over the crackling fireplace. 

Amelia's teeth ground together and she busied herself with gathering their empty glasses from the wassail. Tried her best to ignore the major's intense, withering gaze upon her back and hurried to turn up the radio before depositing the delicate glass dishes in the kitchen sink. She'd clean them in the morning. 

She was slow to return to the sitting room and when she did, they made eye contact. Blue eyes clashing against blue eyes, long and hard and never-ending. Her lips burned, warm and soft, the way his had felt when he kissed her and she clenched her hands into white fists to keep them from trembling at her sides.

His brow was crinkled, thoughtful and pondering. Amelia spoke before he could—before he could turn her speechless with something too emotional, too vulnerable. Before he could leave her defenseless and weak and spiraling out of control, head spinning. Exposed. 

“D'you dance?” she blurted out before mentally slapping herself. How would  _ that _ help?

Ludwig seemed startled. “I— _ what _ ?”

“Dance,” Amelia gasped, drowning. “D'you dance?” 

Ludwig seemed unsure—like he thought this might be a test of some kind. His dumbfounded -yet-still-thinking-real-hard face also just so happened to be completely, disarmingly  _ adorable. _ And Amelia purposefully ignored that  _ she _ had actually thought that. 

“Well, can you?” Hands on hips, squinting. 

“I—well, yes.” Ludwig's mouth was pulled into almost a grimace in his confusion. “Somewhat.”

She held out her hands, offering. “Well then—get up. Let's dance.”

Ludwig's lips quirked into an apprehensive smirk as his eyebrows rocketed up to his hairline. “Right now?”

“Did I stutter?” Amelia frowned impatiently, thrusting her hands out closer to him. “Come  _ on.  _ Get up.” 

And so he did; her hands pressed firmly against hers as the candles flickered cheerily and the radio crackled out low, smooth, cabaret-style carols that Amelia could hardly understand a word of but found pleasing all the same. She swayed slightly, somewhat giddy, pulse thrumming—it had been a while since she'd heard music. Even if it was  _ German  _ music. 

Amelia blushed, suddenly realizing how close he was, how his open palm was completely against hers, and how this was so much worse than just talking. Even if they're talking would end up in some soul-baring confessional that would leave him distant and her close to tears. At least then she wouldn't have to confront how much she enjoyed being so close to him, how wonderfully he smelled and how his gaze pinkened her cheeks and she had to look away if she wanted to remain composed. 

She inhaled deeply, grasping for conversation.  _ Any  _ conversation. 

“You know, I used to play the violin,” she finally said, loud and sudden, swaying awkwardly on her heels. “Dad taught me.”

“Were you any good?” At least he sounded interested, if not a little amused. 

“Not compared to him.” Amelia laughed, gaze downcast. She felt herself begin to smile. “But I was decent.”

Ludwig grinned down at her as the uncomfortable swaying turned into something that more resembled dancing. “I'd bet on it.”

He was dressed quite casually—the first time Amelia had ever seen it, in a soft, long-sleeved shirt, suspenders and dark brown work pants. His hair had fallen out of place and kept him from looking so severe, so strict. Made him look more like someone her father would hire as an assistant—trustworthy and educated. He wasn't a major anymore, just Ludwig. Normal, regular Ludwig. Nothing more, nothing less. And Amelia quite liked Ludwig. 

Blitzer yawned loudly and curled up next to the fire. The snow outside had finally stopped and another song started up, much faster-paced than the one before it had been. 

“I played the piano.” She didn't look, but she could hear the smoke still in his voice, warm as sunshine on a summer day. “My tutor hated me, but I'd like to think I was pretty good. Back then, anyway. Not so much anymore.”

“Can't imagine an adult hating you.” She grinned, still not meeting his gaze. “Or anyone, really.”

Ludwig laughed loudly at that. “You are very wrong then, Miss Jones.” 

They fell into silence, though Amelia wasn't sure how comfortable she'd call it. But at least it was hostile, or tense, or terrified. Just a regular old silence, as Amelia desperately searched for something to say. For something to do. 

Her palms began to sweat and itch and she blushed and ground her teeth. “Can you swing?”

Ludwig's eyes widened. Bulged, almost. “I don't know how to, no.”

“I'll teach you,” she said quickly. 

Ludwig raised his eyebrows. Much more amused by the thought of Amelia Jones, the Dance Teacher, than she would have preferred. 

“I shouldn't.” He sounded crisp and careful. Like this was a test. 

She smirked. “No one's gonna catch us. Don't be such a ’fraidy-cat.”

Ludwig looked over his shoulder, wetting his lips. “If I'm  _ caught,  _ I—”

“You're not gonna get caught,” she snorted. “And even if you were, I'm pretty sure you have more important things to be worried about.”

“You’re really not helping your case, Miss Jones.” A warning, almost. 

She pouted and gazed up at him through her lashes, though she didn't think they were long enough for it to be actually endearing. “Please. For me.”

And, so, Amelia taught him how to swing. 

And he was right—he was far from a dancer, and awfully stiff with his movements, but he got the idea and he was laughing and that's all that really matters to Amelia. Honestly, it was. 

“Everyone dances like this in America?” 

“Everyone who knows how to have fun! Oh, c'mon! I  _ know _ you can move your feet faster than that, Beilschmidt.”

“You're lucky you're so endearing, otherwise…” Ludwig shook his head, laughing too hard to continue, as Amelia pulled him into a cuddle and back out, winking. 

“Otherwise what?”

“I don't know. I'd throw you out into the snow, maybe.”

“I'm hurt.” She smirked. “That's where you rock step, by the way. You really gotta take some initiative, Ludwig. You know? Just do what feels right.  _ Natural _ .”

“Sitting down feels  _ natural _ , if that's what you're concerned with.”

“You're annoying.” Amelia rolled her eyes to emphasize her point. Another song began and Amelia vaguely recognized it from somewhere. Annoyingly, however, she couldn't place it. That would bother her for the next while. “But we can if you want to; you  _ did _ say you needed an early start tomorrow.” 

Ludwig nodded. “I'm not tired, however. I'm more than happy to stay up and talk with you.”

Amelia blinked rapidly and chewed on her cheek as Ludwig released her hands; she felt herself grimace more than she actually willed herself to. 

Here it was—the talking part. The part of the evening she'd most dreaded. 

Her skin broiled as she sat down, as close to the major as she could, without actually sitting next to him. “You told me I deserve an explanation for your behavior, earlier today.”

Ludwig nodded thoughtfully. “I had. And you do.”

“Well,” Amelia continued, swallowing hard, “go ahead. I want one.”

She sounded much more confident than she felt. Blitzer sleepily made his way from the fire to curl up comfortably at Ludwig's feet, resting his little head against his shins. 

“And not just for earlier today,” she said quickly. “For everything else, too. You've been annoyingly cryptic.”

The major nodded again, understanding. “You deserve that too. Well. Ask, and you shall receive.”

Amelia frowned thoughtfully. “Start with where it'll be easiest.” But questions were already forming inside her, swirling like a twister.  _ What happened to your wife? Why were you so upset at the lake earlier? How did you know Arthur? Why would they need Tolys in Lyon? _

Ludwig flexed his jaw, eyes distant, brow wrinkled. Thinking. Of course, more questions formed.  _ Why does Dresdner hate you so much specifically? Why's your brother so psychotic? Why did your father act so strange earlier today? Why were you signed on to look for Francis? _

“I haven't told you how I know Arthur, haven't I?” Ludwig finally said. His lips pursed nervously. 

_ Arthur.  _ Amelia's breathing sped up. “Tell me.” 

“Easy—he knew my wife, when she was a young art student in Paris.” He half-smiled. “The Vargas sisters both are talented, but Margherita was more passionate about becoming a professional painter. Anyway, Arthur had lived in her apartment building and helped her learn French. They became friends pretty quickly, and after I met her, she'd introduced us. That's not when I met him, really. 

“In 1939 I was working for the government as an intelligence officer specializing in counter-insurgence. Arthur, I believe, would have already signed on to work with the SOE.”

That information surprised her, but she didn't let herself show it. “I know.”

“I was stationed in Hamburg, and I had been charged with interrogating foreign nationals. Thanks to my proficiency in both English and French, I was the main officer in charge. 

“In August, I believe, I was given a prisoner, detained at a train station in my district. And I knew immediately, as soon as I saw him, that it was Arthur Kirkland, despite his disguise.” He gave a short laugh. “You know him. He held up well, maintained his innocence and held his ground pretty well. And I was thorough, as you know. I knew I'd be severely reprimanded if he went off, with no criminal charges.”

Amelia's heart thudded unevenly.  _ Arthur. _

The thought of him being interrogated, even by someone as respectful as Ludwig, made her break out into a cold sweat. 

“So I took him into the interrogation room. He, again, didn't falter in his composure or maintaining his innocence. And he was trying to talk to me, trying so hard to get me to talk back to him. He still denied that he was an agent, even though I had good sources who told me that he was. 

“I knew I had to get it out of him somehow, by any means necessary. Failure to procure a confession from a known British spy would be the death of me and my wife, and the rest of my family. So, I ordered for a beating with a metal bat. I hoped his sense of self preservation ran deeper than his loyalty to the OSS. 

“Clearly I knew neither Arthur nor myself, and after the first hit, his first scream of pain, I couldn't take it. I asked my aides to leave, for a more private interrogation, and then ordered for his release. He was innocent; this wasn't Arthur. We'd been tricked. He didn't know anything. I made sure he got a clean change of clothes, food and a proper bath.”

He shook his head as Amelia's panic died down. 

“I spoke to Arthur privately. Told him I'd escort him to Holland so he could get home—to London or France or wherever else he'd planned on going. He told me he'd be in Boston, and of course, at first, I hadn't realized what he was getting at, giving me such specifics, but...well. It doesn't matter for right now, I suppose.”

Amelia's mouth felt uncomfortably dry and her throat tight, as if she was dehydrated. She leaned in close, as if she might miss something if she didn't. As if the proximity would bring her greater understanding. 

“I decided I would get him out of Germany that following morning and Margherita insisted on coming with me. She packed all night while I made phone calls—Tolys sent me the proper paperwork and paid for our tickets. He would cover for me.”

“He seems to do that a lot,” Amelia murmured, smiling fondly at the thought of the tall, soft-spoken officer. 

“He does.” Ludwig smiled in kind back at her. “When I'd dropped him off, Arthur had given me a note. An address, in Boston. He told me, told me if I ever needed to... Margherita and the child we were expecting within the next couple of months could stay with him in Boston. They'd be safe with him there, if it came down to it.”

Amelia's eyes widened. “He—he did?”

“And he was going to. Once my wife had our son, she'd go to Boston, and I'd find a way to join her as soon as I could. When we returned home, I got our papers ready—and Arthur and I stayed in contact over the next few months. Chiara and Antonio would be allowed to join them, if they chose to. And they'd be safe.”

Amelia blinked, chewing on her lips, thoughtful. “I can't believe—He never told me—”

Unable to find the words to go on, she motioned for Ludwig to continue. He, thankfully, obliged. 

“Two weeks after our return, the Gestapo knocked on our door, looking for a foreign spy. Of course, our favorite captain had been there…”

Amelia shuddered. “That son of a bitch.”

“He makes a good villain, doesn't he?” Ludwig grimaced. “Dresdner wasn't in charge of the investigation, but he was one of the officers, and he was insistant on my guilt, and to tell them.”

“And you told him the truth?”

Ludwig nodded gravely. “As fully as I could, and, believe me, he was not pleased. I was called in for questioning, of course, and I showed them my report, that Arthur had been no threat to the Reich, and I was praised for being so thorough in my interrogation. Naturally, they called the investigation off, seeing no reason to waste any more funds or time on it. Oh, Dresdner  _ tried  _ to convince them I couldn't be trusted, raged at my superiors for their ignorance and insisted on my apprehension. He'd been laughed out of the room.”

“And so the rivalry begins,” Amelia said dramatically, as if reading for a radio show, grinning.  _ Somehow  _ she was grinning.

Ludwig snorted. “Actually, it began in Junkerschulen, but that's a different story  _ entirely. _ ”

“What, you stole his lunch tray?” Amelia teased, smirking. 

“Worse.”

“What could be worse than that?”

“His girlfriend.”

Amelia gasped. “Margherita?”

Ludwig nodded. “At a bar. She came with her boyfriend of a year and a half and left with me. He was angry, of course, but I laughed it off and took Margherita home.”

Amelia gaped at him, trying to comprehend the idea of, (a) someone as beautiful as Margherita with a rodent like Dresdner and, (b) someone as thoughtful and noble-hearted as Ludwig  _ actually  _ taking another man's sweetheart home with him. It was definitely worse than stealing a lunch tray. 

“That's it?” She raised her eyebrows. 

“Oh, of course not. Our rivalry was one for the ages after that. He tried to tarnish my reputation any chance he got and then I'd still get promoted anyway. When Margherita and I got married—Florence, by the way—he came in, uninvited, drunk off his ass and got tossed out by my brothers and Tino. He transferred to the Gestapo after that, I suppose. Final straw.”

“And the rest is history?”

“You could say that, yes.”

Amelia pursed her lips, trying not to burst into fits of giggles. “Last I saw ’im, Gilbert was beatin’ ’im up.”

Ludwig grinned briefly. “He won't give up so easily.”

Amelia hummed. “Figures.”

Her hand covered his open palm, which he seemed to be resting without realizing. And, oh—she'd gotten so much paler, paler than she'd ever been, and her knuckles were knobby and wrists fragile. The skin stretched over her bones were a light, ashy colour. Any extra weight she'd had when she first came to France, was now long gone. Her hands brushed her cheeks now and the rest of her hair looked frumpy and ratty, no matter how often she brushed it. 

“Ludwig?”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles in light, thoughtful circles. He hummed, waiting for her patiently, allowing her to sort through her thoughts before she spoke. 

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

She couldn't help but to giggle at the genuine confusion in his voice. 

“For telling me.”

They went to bed after that, Ludwig squeezing her shoulder affectionately before she left as he bid her good night. She was out like a light after that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how obvious it is, but I wrotw most of this without my Adderall, so sorry if it reads weird. I sort of wish I could cut some of this shit out, but that would mean reworking the entire story at this point, so yeah. Just a couple more slower chapters to get through, and then I finally get to the more action-oriented stuff, so just hang in there, yeah?
> 
> Anyway, we're under quarantine here, so I plan on spending that writing, though, unfortunately, it won't all be TBOTM: I have a few one-shots n such I've been working on, if y'all care. But ill try to update this a couple more times too.
> 
> Stay safe & don't get sick.


	21. saturdays passes

_ 26 December 1943 _

“ _ Amelia _ .”

She felt a light hand shaking her shoulder through the cotton veil of sleep and her heavy, downy comforter. Her eyes snapped open and her legs twitched, ready to make a mad dash if she had to. 

Ludwig's face was inches from her own, and the body attached to it was fully pressed into his stuff, dark uniform, sunlight backlighting his figure. Amelia sat up, wrenching her blanket to her chin, face red and mind foggy. The adrenaline had left her as quickly as it had come, leaving her to feel weaker than she had in the first place. 

His lips were moving and words were coming from his mouth—French ones—but Amelia still felt thick from sleep and found herself unable to comprehend anything, still stuck on h hiow Ludwig was freshly shaved and smelled like oranges and honey and firewood. 

“Wha…?” she said, incredibly verbose, as per usual. 

Ludwig had left early Christmas morning, pressing a soft, chaste kiss on her lips (as his walking around had woken her), clearly as sleep-deprived as she was. And when she'd gone to bed—late, even by her standards—last night, he still hadn't returned from helping Gilbert. And now he was here; he was  _ home.  _

It took all of Amelia's self control not to throw her arms around his neck and tell him how much she had missed him. 

“I want you to meet some friends of mine. Will you go with me?”

“Uh, where?”

“Baiersbronn. It's about an hour from here.”

“Bayersbron?”

“It takes a while for you to get up, doesn't it?” He smiled at her and brushed a stray curl from her face, which had been like a jolt of electricity. 

_ Now  _ she was awake. 

“I missed you, y'know,” she mumbled, rubbing the crust from her eyes. Trying hard not to blush at how candid she was being with her feelings towards him.

He looked pretty damn pleased to hear this, like a puppy getting a new toy. “I missed you, too, you'll be happy to know. Amazing how that works, isn't it?”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “ _ Amazing _ .”

“Does that mean you're coming?” His eyes were lit up and he looked so genuinely, blissfully excited that there was no way on God's green Earth she was going to tell him ‘no.’

So, she didn't. 

  
  


Meeting friends wasn't something to be nervous about—something she should fret over and read too much into. It wasn't like he was taking her to see his dead mother's grave, or to his grandparents' holiday dinner. She was being introduced to his friends, which didn't necessarily  _ need  _ to have any romantic subtext, to mean anything more than she was somebody he trusted enough to meet his friends. That he was  _ excited  _ to introduce to his friends. That she was somebody he would  _ like  _ for his friends to meet.

They definitely had not danced together, or kissed— _ multiple _ times now. And she  _ definitely  _ was not worrying about how to dress, and if it would impress  _ him  _ or not.

(Ignore the fact that she was too fidgety to even  _ think _ his  _ name _ properly. That hardly mattered, in the grand scheme of things.)

She decided on a dress through picking with her eyes closed, figuring she'd just be standing there for the next year if left to her own devices in the decision making. She adjusted her dark wig with too many pins, which she would inevitably lose along the trip, and she donned her boots and coat, once again thankful she could finally just shuck her old ones. Never to think about again. 

In fifteen minutes she bounded down the stairs, stomach doing gymnastics and heart throbbing, like an infected blister. Ludwig leaned against the wall near the door, overcoat folded neatly over his arm (as if he'd been fussing over it, which she found strange, but oddly endearing). 

For a second, she thought about taking his hand, but her nerves got the best of her, and she ended up awkwardly elbowing his arm. 

“Why're you all…?” She gestured to his uniform, sucking in her cheeks and bouncing on her heels. Too much energy to get out, for someone who's sleep had been so broken and restless. 

He gestured with his head to a suitcase at the door. “Once we get back, I'm going to return to France. Immediately.”

While Amelia had already known this, she couldn't help but feel like she'd been sucker-punched. She was going to miss him. A lot. Which she wasn't sure if she was  _ really  _ ready to confront. 

Ludwig smiled at her dress—a flowy, blood orange thing that emphasized her waist and fluttered around her knees in a cloud-like breeze. (Not entirely practical, but she had to make a good impression; and, according to Ludwig's brothers, German women wouldn't be caught  _ dead  _ in trousers anyway).

“That's a nice dress,” he said simply, hesitating. As if he was debating on saying something else. 

She decided not to focus on that. “Thanks—I mean, thank you. Uh, Gilbert told me I could use any of the clothes back at the château. This and a blue one, I like the best.” She grimaced, red-face. “He was right, right? It's okay for me to use those clothes?”

“Of course.” He raised an eyebrow. As if he couldn't imagine what had made her feel so suddenly so unsure. “I told him to tell you that—I have no problem with you taking any of the clothes you wish. But, uh...it's funny. Margherita liked those as well. She used to wear the one you're currently wearing to luncheons. I gave it to her as an anniversary gift.”

“Oh!” Amelia pressed her fingers to her open mouth, eyes flaring. “Oh God, I didn't know, I'm so, so sorry.”

Ludwig's face flushed as he rubbed the back of his neck. “No, it looks beautiful on you. That blue one, too. I want you to have it, if you want it.”

“But,” Amelia fiddled with the neckline, looking  _ anywhere  _ but the major's  _ adorable _ blush, “it's got, y'know, sentiment value…”

“All good ones.” Casually, too casually to not have been fussed over in his mind before he'd done it as well, which was also hopelessly adorable, Ludwig smoothed down the bunched fabric on her shoulder. “But it's just a dress. And if you weren't wearing it, it'd be mildewing in some dusty old closet in France. Which Margherita wouldn't have liked. I promise you. I want you to have it, and so would she.”

He seemed like he was telling the truth—it genuinely wasn't a problem. He didn't mind. He wanted  _ her  _ to have it. Given her his blessing and everything. Yet, she still hesitated. 

“When I wear it, does it...remind you too much of her?”

“Not really, no.” He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Of course, I miss her terribly. But when you wear it, I really don't see her. I see  _ you _ .”

  
  


The sun had just gotten around the mountains, a fiery orange-gold ball of everlasting life against a faded, washed-out lilac sky. Amelia had clung to her seat like a lifeline as Ludwig negotiated slippery, white-powdered turns, back pressed flush against the leather seat. Unlike Arthur, Ludwig was a cautious, focused driver; Arthur had always driven so fast, even in mountains, it felt like he was trying to take flight. But, even with Ludwig behind the wheel, it was still frightening. He drove silently, both hands on the wheel, and Amelia watched him—the steep drop-offs next to her made her feel nauseated. 

He had a handsome profile, attractive features—easily one of the best-looking men Amelia had ever met—and Amelia also wasn't entirely sure when she'd begun thinking of him that way.  _ Certainly _ not last November, in the mountains above Izieu; he'd been a monster back then. A murderer. Looking over her as a shadow, crouching over Arthur's lifeless form, like some sort of twisted Destroying Angel. 

By all means, Amelia  _ should  _ still be terrified. Terrified of the icy road, of the war, of Ludwig himself, sitting calmly because her, occasionally glancing at her through the corner of his eye, expression warm. And she waited for it. Waited for that anxiety, that  _ fear _ —that tension to begin suffocating her from her lungs to her throat, squeezing and poisonous and lethal. 

Nothing came. No fear, no overwhelming sense of dread. Nothing. 

Her lap-belt dug into her hip-bones. She readjusted herself, into a much more comfortable position. The glare of the sun reflected off the ice and snow, into the corner of her eye, and she flinched. 

Okay. Well, there  _ was _ something. Some sort of apprehension, a sort of deep, unfortunate confusion. Worst migraine she'd ever had. If Amelia hated anything, it was feeling confused, and now, as she wrapped herself tighter in her new coat, it was all she was. A muddled, confused, cloudy-minded mess. 

She bit her cheek hard enough to draw blood, hardly wincing at the sting. It was a betrayal, treachery to herself and her country, to feel the way she did, even if part of her was so unsure of it. He was a the enemy, and Izieu was not so long ago, and yet here she was—

Falling in love. 

_ Nice one, Jones. Real nice.  _

“We're almost there. See?”

Ahead, a settlement of little colourful buildings huddled in clusters, curving up and around the mountainside. 

“That's Baiersbronn?” 

“Some of it.” He used his pointer to gesture vaguely ahead. “It's a pretty large village. By European standards. The mountains hide a good amount of it.” 

Amelia nodded, 

Baiersbronn itself wasn't the entirety of the settlement; it was just a part of the whole, of several villages, that all just so happened to be settled quite snugly in the Schwarzwald region. Friedrichstahl, Huzenbach, Klosterreichenbach, Mitteltal, Obertal, Röt-Schönegrund, Schönmünzach-Schwarzenberg and Tonbach. Despite their geography, each village was able to function essentially independent of each other, and no villager was confused on where their town's borders stood, and who was from where; and they took this distinction all quite seriously, which Amelia found incredibly amusing. 

“Get your laughter out now,” Ludwig had warned, though he was also grinning. “You don't want to be crucified by the locals, do you?”

Amelia snorted. “ _ Lord _ . Are all Germans like this?”

Ludwig shook his head. “Fortunately not; otherwise there would be so much in-fighting and civil unrest, no one would ever get anything done.”

Amelia refrained to mention that, firstly, Germany  _ did  _ have tons of in-fighting, at least amongst its government (which was a good look for hardly anyone, least of all, some fascist power) and, secondly, under the circumstances, she wouldn't consider it unfortunate in the slightest, if Germany weren't ever able to get anything done. She didn't say either of those things though because, really, in a time like this, they weren't so important to say anyway. 

“It's pretty, though,” Amelia said instead, staring out the window. The pink-orange glow of the sunset glimmered off the snow; blackout curtains had gone up, and little ants had left their tiny homes and made their way through wide streets, crowded, but devoid of any cars. 

It  _ was  _ pretty. Beautiful, even. No photographer could ever do it any justice—without the soft light of dawn, and the warm, cheery colours, it just wouldn't be the same. Wouldn't convey the same feeling, no matter how talented the composition of the shot might have been. As would it be missing, without the feeling of Ludwig's hand covering her own, or without the glances and smiles they kept giving each other. 

“You really think so?”

“Ludwig. It's just  _ lovely. _ ” She leaned against him slightly, and breathed in the scent of his soap, which didn't really  _ have  _ one (not that she could place, anyway), so she had begun to think of it as just  _ Ludwig,  _ and all the nice things they might entail. “Don't really see things like this a lot, back in Boston, y'know.”

“Oh, well. I'm glad you enjoy it so thoroughly then.”

Amelia squeezed his hand. “Of course. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For takin' me with you, silly.” She bumped her shoulder playfully against his. “And, y'know, for everything else.”

“Don't mention it.”

Amelia leaned her cheek against his shoulder, body finally able to relax. 

And, for once, Arthur hadn't crossed her mind. 

  
  


Ludwig's friends lived near the centre of Baiersbronn, about a five minutes walk away from the market and the cathedral and the town hall. It was a medium-sized home, white-and-brown and timber-framed, with a bright green door and cheery yellow curtains. There was a ton of foot traffic, tons of people going up and down the stairs; its door remained permanently open. 

Ludwig stopped his car near the front, garnering a few looks from the crowd. Once out, he was given a few strange glances, a few skeptical frowns—particularly at his uniform, it seemed—but most people just smiled and greeted him in rapid-fast German. Ludwig always smiled back. 

Inside, the foyer was much smaller than Ludwig's, but just as cute and cozy and clean; a fire crackled in stone fireplace, warm and inviting; bookshelves lined the walls; and a beautiful grand piano stood proudly at the window, glossy in the sunlight. 

Amelia was still holding Ludwig's hand when they entered the room. She didn't stop when a man carrying a large box of food came from the robin-egg blue door, which evidently led to a kitchen that smelled like cakes and bread and ham. 

Ludwig cleared his throat slightly, and the man whipped his head around, widened his eyes, and set down his box to hold out his arms for an enthusiastic hug. Ludwig, of course, accepted the invitation, and completely engulfed the man in his frame. 

Amelia smiled and hoped she didn't look too awkward, just hanging behind Ludwig. 

“Roderich,” Ludwig said, gesturing for Amelia to join them, “this is Ophèlie Destombes.”

Amelia accepted the man's—Roderich's—proferred hand. 

Up close, he was a bit older than Amelia had initially guessed, but still quite handsome, even with a slightly thinning hairline and stress lines around his eyes and mouth. Unfairly handsome, if Amelia was being entirely honest—with chocolate brown hair, deep blue eyes and lily-white skin. His fingers were long and adept, his grip surprisingly firm, and his gold rim-wire glasses only really emphasized the straightness of his nose. 

“Ophèlie, this is Roderich Edelstein.” He grinned. “One of my good friends—even  _ if  _ he's a dirty Austrian.”

Amelia returned Roderich's smile. 

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Fräulein Destombes,” Roderich said politely, his French articulate, but his accent thick—with rolled R's and musical vowels. “I've heard much about you.”

Amelia coloured, as did Ludwig. The Austrian chuckled lightly. “All good things, of course.”

“What else would there be to say?” Amelia managed, shifting on her feet. 

Ludwig saved her, of course. He turned to Roderich, and spoke lowly and quickly: 

“Ophèlie ist mir sehr wichtig für mich, und deshalb sage ich es Ihnen, weil ich Ihnen vertraue: Ich sage den Leuten, dad's she die Erzieherin meines Sohnes ist, aber technisch gesehen eine Gefangene, wenn der Krieg unter Hausarrest steht—aber ich es geschafft sich in sie verlieben.”

Roderich smiled knowingly. “Krieg kann Menschen unter den seltsamsten Umständen zusammenbringen.” He nodded kindly to Amelia. “You are very welcome in my home, Ophèlie. If Ludwig cares so deeply for you, you must be an extraordinary woman, and that's enough for me.”

“Thank you.” But Amelia was still processing how beautiful Roderich's French was—how perfect his syntax was, and perfectly natural he sounded. Better than Ludwig's even. 

He turned his full attention back to Ludwig—and, most likely for her benefit, continued in his symphonic, nearly-flawless French. “Tell me how long you're able to stay, Ludwig. We could really use your help in the evening.”

“Unfortunately, I have to make my escape after lunch.” Ludwig gave him an apologetic, almost sheepish look. 

“The war calls, I imagine?”

“Unfortunately.” Ludwig grimaced. Then he looked around. “Is Max still in—?”

Roderich nodded soberly. “Yes, and I'm afraid that's where he'll stay.”

Ludwig's face paled. “Maxi is…?”

Roderich shook his head. “We were just informed last month. Erszèbet is beside herself with grief.”

Ludwig looked like he might actually cry. “I—Roderich, I'm so sorry.”

“Yes, well, such is war.” Herr Edelstein seemed to be trying to stay together himself, but he was noticeably strained as he spoke. “Especially in Russia. I think we both knew that—we both knew it was coming…”

Amelia's mouth felt dry, and she rubbed her elbows as a lump formed in her throat. She could handle tears—she had no choice but to share them. 

“But your son—Angelo…” Roderich swallowed. “He must be four now, right?”

Ludwig smiled sadly. “He turned five in September. I'm sorry he couldn't make it—he's at Mass, with his aunt.” 

His voice was solemn, gaze faraway—as if imagining his own son, lifeless and frozen, alone in some battlefield in Russia. 

“As it should be,” Roderich said resolutely, nodding. 

The kitchen door swung open, and a woman with a brash, raspy voice called out: “Roddi, wo bist du auch weggelaufen? Wir—”

The woman stopped, set down her box of what appeared to be foodstuffs for a proper Christmas dinner, and broke into a large grin. She dashed across the room to give Ludwig a squeeze that audibly knocked the air from his lungs. “Oh, Luddi, ich dachte du könntest nicht kommen!”

Ludwig kissed her on the cheek. “Dann irren with uns beide.”

They pull away, and Ludwig puts his hand on Amelia's shoulder. “And this is Ophèlie. She's Angelo's new tutor. I met her in France.”

Amelia nodded awkwardly, face warming. Too many prying eyes on her. “Oh, yes. A pleasure to meet you, Frau—”

“Please, call me Erszi.” Erszebèt clasped Amelia's outstretched hand in hers—brawny and tan and callused. Her knuckles were ashy. “Oh, you've gotta strong grip, Miss Ophèlie. That's good. And a lovely face. Also good.”

Amelia coughed weakly, though she couldn't think of anything to say, so instead she just said, “Wha…?”

“I'm glad Ludva found you; you'll do him some real good, I bet.” Erszebèt grinned. “He's been alone far too long, if you ask me.”

Amelia's face burned bright red and she felt her brain short-circuiting. Was it that obvious, or was Erszebèt always this over-presumptuous? And was it flattering that she thought that Amelia was a good fit for Ludwig—or did that even matter at all?

“Erszi,” Ludwig muttered, more poutily than anything else. Amelia thought it was cute before she could stop herself. 

Erszebèt was also quite beautiful, though older than expected, much like her husband, and in a much more country-sweet way—with a thick disarray of cinnamon coloured curls held back with a green scarf and her round, deep-set eyes were a warm, muddy green colour that gave her an immediately affable appearance. There was a gap between her two front teeth when she smiled. 

Amelia was immediately jealous of her lean muscles and pronounced cheekbones. 

“Uh, thank you.” Amelia tried for a winning smile. Like she wasn't just in an existential crisis. 

Erszebèt turned again towards Ludwig. “Ah, Luddi, it's like you get handsomer every time I see you.”

Ludwig shook his head. “I think you mean ‘distinguished,’ don't you? I'm also a bit older than before.”

“Oh, only a little bit.” Erszebèt patted his cheek, voice slightly thicker than usual. “You are still young enough to be my son.”

Ludwig wrapped his arms around the woman once again and kissed her forehead. “Nothing would make me more proud, Erszebèt.”

With a muffled croak, Erszebèt disentangled herself from Ludwig's grasp and stepped back, brushing the almost non-existent moisture from her eyes. She managed to bring back her previous friendly smile, and turn to include Amelia in her gaze. “There now, see how wonderful this man is? You could never,  _ ever  _ find one better.”

“And now you're embarrassing me in front of Ophèlie.”

Erszebèt smirked, hands on hips. “Bring her to dinner after the deliveries have all been made, and I'll embarrass you more.”

“As much as I would enjoy your wonderful cooking, and company, I must decline.” Ludwig gave a small, apologetic smile. 

“ _ Must  _ you?” 

Roderich wrapped a gentle arm around his wife's shoulders (and Amelia realized with a bit of amusement the man was a full two inches shorter than his wife). “Ludwig in den Krieg zurückkehren, meine Liebe. Wir werden ihn und seinen Freundin ein andermal einladen müssen.”

Erszebèt pouted, but she didn't argue against it. “Next time, you will stay for dinner.”

“With Angelo, as well,” Roderich added. 

“That's right! I just  _ knew  _ someone was missing. Where's my godson, Luddi?” Erszebèt leaned into Ludwig, arms folded.

“Mass. With his aunt.”

Roderich tapped Erzsebèt's shoulder. “Lies, we must get started if we want to give Ludwig ample time to get back to France.”

“Oh, of course! Luddi, could you help Roddi? He's doing yardwork.”

Ludwig leaned down slightly to murmur to Amelia. “Roderich and Erszebèt and a few others in the community like to get together and help the women of the community —the elderly and widows, for the most part—as a Christmas gift to them.”

“That sure is sweet of ’em,” Amelia whispered back. She smiled at the couple, who were now whispering lowly to each other. “So, you're gonna do that then?”

“Would you be comfortable with that?”

“’Course.”

Ludwig squeezed Amelia's shoulder. “I think you should go see if you can help Erszebèt. I think it'd mean a lot to her.”

  
  


Erszebèt's job was delivering the food prepared by a few other women—Frau Wagner, Frau Steiner, and Fräulein Marja—were cooking in the Edelsteins' shockingly spacious kitchen. The women laughed a lot as they chatted over the food. 

Erszebèt kindly donated a pair of her own boots and a sturdy, plaid worksheet for Amelia to wear; Fräulein Marja had been kind enough to run back to her home to retrieve a pair of pants for Amelia to wear with them. “The snow gets deep here,” Marja had said. 

“When should I—”

“Give ’em back? Oh, just. Keep ’em. I got plenty.” Marja's blue eyes twinkled. “Plus, those don't fit me anymore anyways.”

The meals were already packed up in their boxes, ready to be delivered, and Amelia helped load them into a rather large wagon that Fräulein Marja's parents had kindly donated for the day. The food smelled delicious, and Amelia's stomach grumbled loudly. Her face went hot.

Erszebèt grinned at her, unjudging. “If there's any leftovers, you can take them for the trip home.”

Amelia's face grew hotter. “Er, um, thank you. But that—I mean, you don't, don't  _ have _ to do that.”

“You're not stealing from anyone, I promise.” Erszebèt put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It's only if there's food left over.”

Erszebèt, as it turned out, likes to talk almost as much as Amelia did. And that's to say, she  _ loved  _ to talk; to tell stories, listen, ask questions. She talked to the grateful women whose doors she knocked on, to any passerby who stopped to say “hi,” and to, most of all, Amelia herself. 

She showered Amelia with questions of France, her childhood, Christmas, and  _ how has Ludwig been treating her _ ? Everything and anything she could think of, and all of that in between, it seemed. Whatever popped into her mind, whatever felt relevant. In many ways, it was an interrogation, almost, and Amelia did her best to answer honestly, but not so much as to blow her cover. 

She did part of her school at a university in London, but she was born in Paris. Her father is an engineer and her mother died a few years back. She's fluent in both English and French. She's been working since she was thirteen years old. She and Ludwig met through a mutual friend, whom she had been visiting with in Belley. 

“We just hit it off, real fast, an’ he was lookin’ for a tutor for his son,” she explained, hoping that it would be enough of an explanation to satisfy Erszebèt's curiosity, but also broad enough that she didn't contradict anything that Ludwig might have told her. “So, here I am.”

Erszebèt nodded, as if all of that wasn't vague as hell and sounded like a complete lie, even to Amelia. “Have you met Ludwig's family?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow. “His brothers and father?”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

The image Laurinaitis men sprang to mind immediately—Tolys, all tall and shaggy haired; Gilbert, with his slush-coloured eyes and sharp, angular features; and lastly, Mr. Laurinaitis, so incredibly tall and imposing, every bit the Junker Gilbert had claimed they were. They were sort of hard to forget.

“Of course I've met them,” Amelia repeated, still smiling. 

Erszebèt's expression turned—her smile faltered, and then left completely, and there was a look in her eyes that Amelia couldn't understand. They had just delivered the last package to a tall, blond boy who seemed to more yell than speak, and now they had to take the fifteen minute walk back to Erszebèt's home. It was Amelia's turn to pull the cart—which was just as well; Erszebèt's shoulders had slumped forward as well. 

“How are the brothers?” she finally asked. “Since you last saw them?”

Amelia had last seen them the day before, running their hands tiredly through their hair and whispering lowly amongst themselves over Chiara's dinner. Gilbert had excused himself to make a few calls, and Tolys had hurried after him, kissing Angelo on the top of the head as he went. 

“I think they're fine. Probably stumbling drunk by now.” There was a distinct possibility for it anyway. Though how strong that possibility actually  _ was _ , Amelia wasn't sure of. “To make up for their schedule yesterday.”

“I see.” Erszebèt struggled to continue. “And their both still bachelors?”

“I'm pretty sure.”

Erszebèt frowned. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

The first few houses of town started to pop again, all pointed and colourful. Snow began to fall, even as the sun continued shining. Her grandma had said that it was when the Devil was beating his wife. Or maybe that was with rain, and not snow. Amelia couldn't remember. 

When she gets back home, she'll call her grandparents. She never called them enough.

“Uh…Erszi? Do you...erm,  _ know _ , the brothers—Gilbert and Tolys?”

Amelia sent a careful glance the woman's way, chewing the inside of her cheek. Erszebèt continued to stare ahead, scraping her teeth against her chapped lips. 

What had she said?

Finally, Erszebèt sighed, loud and long, and Amelia jumped. “Yes, I knew them. Quite well, in fact.”

“You don't have to talk about it,” Amelia said quickly. Because she didn't, really, even if Amelia was burning from the inside out with all of her curiosity. She didn't want someone so close to Ludwig to hate her. 

“Oh, that's alright. You have answered so many questions for me already.” Erszebèt inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. “I can answer this  _ one _ .”

Amelia looked down at her boots, hoping the excitement wasn't obvious on her face. She was curious. And, not to mention, anything she could learn that might possibly relate to Ludwig's background, she wanted to hear. 

“I knew Gilbert and Tolys all the way at the beginning of the Great War—I went to a boarding school in Berlin and, as luck would have it, they went to a school close to mine. Because of that, our schools shared a library, and I always went to the library to study on Saturdays and one Saturday—I just turned sixteen—I bumped into the most handsome young man I'd seen, my whole time in Berlin.” She laughed. “Of course, Gilbert was very handsome back then, and much, much richer, so he was dressed very nicely. It was all very cliché—I'd bumped into him walking down the stairs, and he helped me pick my books up.

“You know what he told me? ‘You read so much, it's going to spoil your brain. That's probably why you're so clumsy.’ I was livid—called him a jackass, an idiot, an ape—all sorts of things. He just laughed it off. I told him, ‘Well, you're just jealous that I  _ can  _ read at all,’ and he said, ‘Well, at least I'm not so clumsy.’”

Amelia snorted. In a way, she could almost see it—a young man smirking at a young woman, who's eyes were red with indignation, her sturdy arms full of books, pins hardly doing anything to hold back her messy brown hair. 

“Yes I know.” Erszebèt chuckled with her. “It was ridiculous,  _ completely idiot _ , and then he offered to walk me back to my school—he tripped while crossing the street, if you can imagine. You should've seen his face!

“Well, after that, I saw him almost every Saturday. Every Saturday morning, he told me that books would rot my brain, and every Saturday evening, he'd walk me back to my school. A month went by, and he asked if I would like to do something more interesting than reading all day. I told him I would, next week. And that was that. We went to walk up and down a park in Potsdam all day that day, and I had never laughed more in my life. We began to see each other whenever our schedules would allow it after that, and then we began introducing each other as boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Amelia's cheeks hurt from grinning. A boy and a girl, walking arm-in-arm, around a cobblestone city, laughing and joking. “That's actually kinda cute.”

Cute as it was, it was still hard to imagine Gilbert as being both young and good-looking, and also pursuing any sort of long-form romance. 

“It all went along very quickly, and by the time I was seventeen and he had just turned eighteen, we were engaged.” Erszebèt chuckled. “Mrs. Laurinaitis—her name is Urte, by the way—she was completely pleased with this development. Both she and Reiner liked me a lot, so they were both very eager for it to happen. And I got along with Tolys and Luddi as well. Really, for all intents and purposes, it was a good match. Would've been. Oh, but Father disapproved—‘A Prussian? You want to marry a  _ Prussian _ ? After all they've done to our people?’ 

“He all but disowned me when he heard the news, but Mama  _ did  _ approve, so even that didn't end up being too much of an issue.” Erszebèt paused, frowning. “What  _ was  _ the issue was the Great War. 

“Gilbert had only been gone for, hmm, nine months, maybe? He was sent back home after the Russians surrendered; returned a decorated field officer, thanks to his honourable service in Tannenberg and his youth. Not that any of that had mattered to me—my fiancé had returned unharmed, and I was so very pleased by that! But, well…”

“He wasn't completely unscathed. Not mentally.” 

The hollow look from earlier returned to Erszebèt's vibrant green eyes, and she nodded. “The war had taken its victims, and one of them was the Gilbert I had known and loved. We fought a lot—his temper had gotten worse and he drank too much. As the weeks went on, he just got worse—he refused any psychiatric help, and he became more violent and more confrontational and destructive. I knew he'd never hurt me, but then again, I didn't—if he wasn't afraid to get violent around me, to throw things around and punch walls, who was to say he wouldn't soon grow violent  _ towards  _ me as well? It grew to be too much. He was changed and had experienced something I would never possibly be able to understand. I felt bad, but I left. I  _ had  _ to, for myself. And for him too. He needed someone to love  _ him _ , not somebody he once was, I think.”

Amelia nodded solemnly. It had been like that, seeing Arthur again—like there had been a barrier between them that she just couldn't breach. Though he wasn't unrecognizable—he was still Arthur, in little glimpses and snippets—he  _ had  _ changed, and it had been difficult to be the her she'd always been. It wasn't the same as what had happened to Erszebèt, she knew, but it was enough to empathize. 

“That must've been really hard for you. I mean, it sounds like you still loved him?”

“It had been. I'd felt just terrible. And I was too cowardly to say it in person, too—I left a letter before running off.” Erszebèt shook her head. “I think so would've gotten more closure if I had done it in person. I was never able to properly tell him how... _ horrible _ ...it felt. My heart was broken for years afterwards. And, well, that wasn't him. It was  _ me, _ and my incapability of dealing with the shellshock he'd gotten after the war. It sounds like an excuse but he needed someone more sensitive than I was—someone more patient and sympathetic.”

Erszebèt stared longingly ahead. “I'd made no  _ real  _ attempts to understand, Ophèlie. I just got angry and lashed out. Not that he didn't deserve it sometimes, but…”

“You were young, Erszi. Kids make mistakes. And no one's entitled to you like that anyway. You were his fiancée, not his therapist.”

“And we were children, Ophèlie. How cruel this world is, that a child must experience the horrors of war, and then he is  _ congratulated  _ for it?” Erszebèt grimaced. “It's the symptom of a sick society, Ophèlie. It really is.”

Amelia had never thought of it that way before—that children were being made into soldiers, and their trauma celebrated as a victory, but Erszebèt had made a good point. Gilbert had a chance for love, for lifelong happiness, and it all just became another casualty on the battlefield. Another statistic. 

“And it wasn't even just Gilbert!” Erszebèt cried. “Tolys—he used to be such an impish little trickster, all cheeky and reckless. And when he came back? You spoke too suddenly, and he would flinch. It was just—just  _ horrible _ .”

“Really is,” Amelia mumbled. How different would the brothers have been, had the Great War never happened? “So, when did you meet Roderich, if that's okay?”

Erszebèt was quite for a moment, before a slow, sad grin stretched across her parched lips. “Oh, of course that's okay. We met in ’24, when I was working as a seamstress and a maid in Vienna. Originally I thought he was a pompous bastard, but—oh, Ophèlie, he's so kind and generous and  _ beautiful _ , inside and out. He was a composer—still is—and, my God, were his pieces beautiful. He'd won me over with Für Erszebèt, though.”

Amelia's jaw dropped. “He composed a song for you?”

“And that's just the first of many.” Erszebèt's eyes shone—all wistful and nostalgic and in love—as she smiled at Amelia. “He says I'm his greatest inspiration, that sappy bastard.”

“Oh my God, that's so cute!” Amelia almost squealed. “If someone wrote a song for me, I'd marry ’em on the spot.”

“That's exactly how I felt as well.” Erszebèt nudged Amelia's shoulder. “Oh, shit. We passed the house.”

“No, no. It's okay. Your stories are interesting. I wish I could hear more, honestly.”

“Another time,” Erszebèt promised quickly. “But Luddi can't be late back to work, so let's not keep them waiting, yes?”

Amelia nodded, heart sinking. 

_ Back to work.  _

\---

The car was silent as Ludwig drove through Schönau to his estate. The sun was already close to falling behind the mountains and snow continued to flutter from an almost cloudless sky like autumn leaves. His fingers were laced through hers, and she held onto them like a vice, while he squeezed. 

Amelia peeked in his direction—his face was flushed bright strawberry red from the cold and his jaw was clenched tight. He glanced over to meet her gaze—his mouth pursed at her grin and then he gripped the wheel so tightly, she thought his fingers might break off. 

Amelia opened her mouth to speak, but had nothing to say.

As they approached the main house, Amelia's stomach flopped. Soon the time she had left with Ludwig would come to an end—and she didn't know how long those curtains would remain closed. And—oh God, how the thought made her shudder—she was going to miss him. Even in just these few days, the infatuation she felt for him was unlike anything she experienced. 

Arthur had come close. With his fun-loving, passionate ways and his admiration for her determination to help out with the Résistance in whatever ways she could. And clearly, he was the more  _ proper  _ choice, the  _ right  _ choice even. His love for her didn't have the possibility of either of them being executed or imprisoned for treason. 

He was  _ safe.  _

Maybe, it made her an idiot, or too stubborn for her own good—or, worse yet, un-American, and a traitor to her own people. And maybe it meant an almost certain death, but—if Ludwig was with her, none of that scared her. Not like it should have. She'd face any odds—no matter how unbeatable—if she knew he'd be right beside her. 

_ I'm an idiot.  _

Ludwig killed the engine and stared out the windshield, at the house in front of him. The lights were on, so that must mean that Angelo and Chiara were home, and probably waiting for them. 

He turned to face Amelia. His blue eyes were desperate—hectic and haunted. “I—”

Amelia didn't know what she was doing, but couldn't stop herself from doing it. She closed the space between them and kissed him—hard and passionate and for as long as she could manage, before he would inevitably pull away and leave her behind. Her blood roared in her ears like waves crashing along a beach and her body felt white hot and tingly as she threw her arms around his neck. 

How unfair was it, for two people to feel this way and yet still have only a snowball's chance in Hell of being together? 

Eventually, Ludwig did pull away, after giving her a small peck on the corner of her mouth. “We should talk.”

Amelia froze. In her experience, the words  _ we should talk _ was never a good thing to hear. Especially not after a kiss. “We should,” she whispered anyway. 

_ Don't let this be the end.  _

“I can't stand the thought of leaving you, Amelia.” Ludwig's face looked hot enough to fry an egg on it. She almost laughed at her own mental image. Almost. “I know you have your reservations—about me, about us—but leaving you now...I just can't.”

“I can't either.” She meant it. He was becoming like air to her—she couldn't breathe properly without him. “I can't.”

“I want to marry you.”

Time stood still. Amelia's heart stopped, started, stopped again, and then restarted. And, oh God, the feeling of his heart beating so strongly against hers, she would've thought she was dreaming. It was so stupid;  _ she  _ was so stupid. And while she couldn't imagine a life without him, neither could she  _ with  _ him. 

A Nazi wife?  _ Her? _ All done up in pearls and curls on his arm as they went to party gatherings, smiling and oh so demure, a doll on display as Ludwig associated with the likes of Dresdner and worse, and she, swapping household hints with other Nazi wives. ‘Oh? Hans cheat on you again? What sort of prayers do  _ your  _ children recite to the Führer before bed?’

And her children—all decked out in swastikas and the Imperial Cross. Her sons would be soldiers and her daughters little housewives. Because, of course, she'd be encouraged to have many, many children, and all Of them would be raised in the all-encompassing shadow of their oh-so benevolent Führer. 

Ludwig would go to work, commit unthinkable atrocities, and then come home to kiss her and their children good night. 

She shivered with disgust before she could stop herself before doing what felt like the most difficult thing she's ever done. She disentangled herself from Ludwig. Faced away, blinking rapidly to hide her tears. She didn't release his hands. Not yet. 

Amelia was eloquent when she wanted to be—her words had always been her strongest weapon, her greatest strength. And now—well, she needed them more than ever. He needed to understand—why it could never happen, why her answer always had to be ‘no,’ even as she was screaming to say ‘yes.’ 

“Amelia…” He sounded wounded; his hands gripped hers so fiercely. She didn't even dare to look at his face—it would grind her to dust—and she already felt so shattered as it was. 

“I need you to understand, first, that I  _ love _ you, Ludwig, more than you realize, even. More than I thought would ever be possible. And that, fuck, I don't wanna say  _ no.  _ More than anything I want…”

“But you still fear me.” His voice cracked—so hurt and so desperate. 

“No— _ God, _ no. Ludwig, I—” She turned to look him in the eyes, and her heart crawled into her throat. “I love you. I  _ love  _ you an’ the thought of you leavin’ has been tearin’ me up all fuckin’  _ day _ . It's not  _ you  _ that I'm scared of—it's, it's of the life you represent, if I did say yes.”

“I, I know, Amelia—but if you could just  _ trust  _ me—” He spoke through gritted teeth. “Things will work themselves out, eventually.”

“Lud—” Amelia choked on a sob. He was nothing but a blur through the film of tears in her eyes. “I jus’  _ can't _ . And—God—I'm so fuckin' sorry, but…”

“I can't imagine losing you.”

“Me neither.”

Ludwig looked down at their hands, clasped together as if they were fused. Tears—warm and salty and stinging—cascaded down Amelia's cheeks. She wanted nothing more than to throw her arms back around him and hang on for dear life. 

But something held her back. And she recaptured his gaze, his eyes had become masked, unreadable, as if he'd locked his emotions back and thrown away the key. 

“I can understand your concern.” His tone was tight and controlled, almost pleasant—the voice he used during interrogations. “I can accept it. Your answer. I accept it.”

“Ludwig, you're the most amazin’ man I've ever met.”

“But that's not enough, is it?” His voice took on a bitter edge. 

“Now, don't put words in my mouth,” she said, voice thick. “Tha’snot true, an’ you  _ know  _ it. You're more than enough and if it weren't for—”

“For the fact that I'm a Nazi,” he supplied, so eerily calm. His words stung, like a slap to the face. 

“It's not  _ that _ ,” Amelia murmured. “I don't care about what  _ you  _ are—you're only doin’ this so protect your son, an’—God, see, I don't know if I would help with that. There's a warrant out for my arrest ’round here, remember?”

“Funny. I always thought my being a Nazi was what brought us together.”

Amelia gasped, then swatted his arm. But he was right, and there was really no denying it. But still. “So, maybe, the war'll end soon…”

“And what would it change?” Ludwig laughed bitterly. “If Germany wins, I'll continue to be a Nazi. If we lose, I'll be hated because I  _ was  _ a Nazi. No matter what happens, to the world, I'll always be...this.”

_ Only because you've reduced yourself to just being a Nazi already.  _ “Maybe not. I mean, look at all the good you've done—you saved me and Chiara…”

Ludwig shook his head. “Many Nazis have protected those close to them. Hasn't stopped them from shooting Communists or shipping off Jews to extermination camps.”

Amelia's heart twisted. “Extermination…?”

Her mouth felt dry. She was light-headed. Needles dug into her chest. Her blood turned to ice, frozen solid.

“I'm not supposed to know—many believe the deportations are really just to locate the Jews. But it's not true. Shuffling trainloads of Jews and Poles and Romani around the continent will never accomplish the Führer's true purpose. He wants to cleanse Europe.”

“But—but you, you wouldn't!” 

Ludwig cradled her trembling hands in his. “And I won't. But I'm in a dangerous position already. They'll kill Angelo if they can find any reason to do so.”

“I'll protect him.” Amelia lifted her chin. Nevermind that she was a prisoner herself—and in enemy territory with nothing more than a wig and a few counterfeit identification papers hiding her true identity. 

“I can't ask you—”

“Good thing you didn't. An’ neither am I.” She spoke through a clenched jaw. “I'm gonna do it. I don't know how, but I swear to God, no one'll lay a Goddamn finger on your son.”

“Well, I suppose I can't stop you…” Ludwig sighed, brushing her hair from her eyes. A spark of electricity jolted through her heart. “Thank you, Amelia. You truly are a blessing to me.”

“I'm just sorry I can't do more.” She looked up at him, eyes boring into his. “But  _ you  _ can do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Don't die.” The tears had dried— _ why did her heart still sting?  _ “Or else I'll haveta raise you from the dead, so I can kill you again. For leavin' me.”

“On my honour, Amelia. I will come back to you.”

She smiled sadly. “You better.”

\---

Amelia returned to her room, completely worn out, nerves completely frayed, wondering if she would ever have the opportunity to see Erszebèt Edelstein ever again, because, well, she  _ understood.  _ And she really needed some guidance at the moment. 

On her pillow, something glinted in the moonlight—a thin gold ring, with three small emeralds, clustered together. The silk WOK Ludwig had confiscated in St. Victor-sur-Loire was threaded through it. 

She fell asleep with both closed safely inside her palm.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
